Spirit of Fear: The Lost Shadow
by TermiteStudios
Summary: Sequel to "The Misguided Fox." War has come. Finding himself caught in the middle, an eccentric warlock is reluctant to use the power of his ancient wand, but unable to abandon the woman he loves. If only the demon in his head would leave him in peace. Books 5 to 7. Original character.
1. Calm Skies

The following story is continued from _Spirit of Fear: The Misguided Fox_ (story ID 3623224). It took me seven years to complete that first installment's seventy-six chapters. Naturally, seven years is plenty of time for me to improve as a writer, so those early chapters aren't the best-written, but I feel the story improves as it progresses.

With this, I am attempting a re-introduction of sorts to my original character in the first few chapters so returning readers can get up to speed, as well as laying a foundation for new readers. For the full story, though, I recommend going back to the first part and reading through.

I also recommend you check out _The Lost Shadow_ 's prologue, _Spirit of Fear: Sigma_ (story ID 11211724).

This story contains elements from the _Harry Potter_ franchise, copyright J. K. Rowling and her publishers. This and related stories will generate no revenue for me on this or any other publication. Many thanks to Rowling for crafting this wonderful world in which our creative minds have been having so much fun.

Rated Teen for language, occasional violence, suggestive dialogue and alcohol reference. Thanks for reading!

* * *

 _ **Spirit of Fear:**_ _ **The Lost Shadow**_

* * *

 _ **Chapter One**_

 _ **Calm Skies**_

* * *

The streets of London had a new member to the ranks this past month.

When the summer sky went from blazing orange to royal purple, eight cylinders rumbled under the whine of their supercharger as they propelled a silver Aston Martin Vantage between the early-Postwar row houses, finally turning in on a small square named Gimmauld Place. Broken windows peered down from time-worn walls which propped up doors with peeling paint as the Vantage rolled past cars of a similar state to the houses.

None of Grimmauld Place's residents, not even the teenagers using the condemned house as a hideout to smoke and drink, could fathom what the owner of this rather-expensive sports car was doing there. Policemen had occasion to pass it by and wondered why it hadn't been vandalized yet. The car would just show up almost every night, miraculously find a parking space, and the driver would step out and enter one of the houses.

Thing was, no one could ever work out which house. The more imaginative residents wondered if it had something to do with the mysterious Number Twelve house. For as long as anyone could remember, Number Twelve simply never existed. City planners occasionally omitted numbering a house "Thirteen," given the superstitious nature of some people, but Gimmauld Place instead lacked a "Twelve." What started as a local curiosity soon became the subject of ghost stories about Number Twelve and the silver Aston Martin.

And just like almost every night, the Vantage prowled the streets until it found Grimmauld Place and parked in a space just between numbers eleven and thirteen.

Only tonight, there was someone waiting for him.

The stranger with graying hair and tired eyes was garbed in patched and shabby robes. He watched the car approach and stop in front of him as he checked his pocket watch.

When the engine shut off, a young man stepped out. His silver eyes matched his hair, unkempt and just barely reaching down to his shoulders, yet somehow staying clear of his face. He stood tall with a medium build, wearing a black leather trench coat over blue jeans and a t-shirt. His lean, almost angular face would be considered handsome if only it didn't project quiet frustration this evening.

"You're Lupin, right?" the young man asked, his American accent standing in stark contrast to the British all around him.

"Chey McGonagall, I presume?" the stranger answered.

"Yeah." The two shook hands. "Nice to finally put a face to the name."

"You're late," the stranger remarked.

"Two minutes," he retorted.

"Still late, according to him."

"Had a lot to cover with my contact," Chey explained, rounding to the back of the car and opening the trunk, out of which he pulled a black broomstick. "Are we doing this or what?"

The two left the car and houses behind them and approached the small square lined with overgrown hedges, wherein stood several other people holding broomsticks.

"You're late," one of them growled. He stood short and hunchbacked with a mane of gray hair, face covered in scars and a piece of flesh missing from his nose. His eyes were mismatched, one small and black, the other large and blue, darting this way and that, independent of the other.

"I got some information to make up for it," Chey answered. "And skies are calm, so if we leave now with no headwind we'll still make it on time."

The disfigured man grunted in agreement. To the purple-haired young witch holding two brooms, he said, "Tonks, brief him on the way."

"Right, Mad-Eye," she said, handing one of the brooms to Lupin. Something about her magic seemed familiar, but a bit off. To Chey, she said, "Don't mind him."

"Why would I mind?" he responded, taking to the sky with the others on his own broom.

The London streets shrank below them as they climbed into the air, the warm July air giving way to the chilly heights. The cold, thinning air put Chey in mind of his time in Colorado, where he and his classmates would hold impromptu broom races through the mountains.

Up here, Chey's mind was finally clear. It had been a long month of work for him, coordinating meetings, verifying information, passing intelligence to his superior and dodging questions. It was good to get a new perspective, putting some distance between himself and the buzz of the city and magical community. True, he could still feel the presence of the witches and wizards flying with him, but compared to walking the halls of Hogwarts or the Ministry of Magic, it was practically solitude.

Well, it would be solitude, if Tonks wasn't talking to him over the noise of the wind.

"That's a nice Firebolt, you've got," she said, attempting small-talk.

"What's the situation?" he answered, getting to the point.

"Wait, weren't you involved in planning this?"

"I just got the Specters," Chey said. "I don't know what happened, just the Old Man wanted some Ghosts on our side. He sent Bones with the details, then forwarded me the passwords."

"It's Harry Potter," she explained. "Dementors attacked him near his family's house in Surrey."

"He fought 'em off," Chey said. It wasn't a question. Harry wasn't the kind to go down without a fight. And from what Chey heard, the boy had held his own against those vile creatures before.

"Right, but he had to use the Patronus Charm, which the Ministry of Magic detected. It's his second offense, so they've convened a hearing."

"So we're taking him into friendly hands," Chey finished. "Who did we have on guard when it happened?"

"Two that night: Mundungus Fletcher and a squib named Arabella Figg."

"Only two people?"

"Hey, we're lucky Mrs. Figg lived nearby."

"Remind me: who's Fletcher?"

"He's the slimy git. Scarpered off that night for some kind of 'business transaction.'"

"Someone had a word with him yet?"

"He came to us pretty bruised up from Mrs. Figg hitting him with her cat food."

"Cat food?"

"He says it was a bag of cans."

"Doesn't sound like quite enough," he muttered to himself. "How long have the Specters been on post?"

"Since yesterday. Mrs. Figg told us she saw a big brute sitting in a car all day, sweating right through his shirt."

"Could be them. We'll know when we land."

"So if you didn't know what we're doing, why did you come?"

"Old Man said you guys needed a familiar face."

"Really? I heard Moody asked for some firepower."

"Someone might have mentioned that."

The man with the mismatched eyes led them on a winding course, the easier to check if they were being followed. It wasn't necessary, since Chey could sense everyone in the sky capable of magic. They flew alone, but it wouldn't do to pester the irritable Auror, so he held his tongue.

"Remus, McGonagall," he called out when they reached the sleepy suburb, "you land first and give us the all-clear."

Chey obeyed, following Lupin on their descent to the houses below. The neighborhood was devoid of magic, save for some kind of concealment charm on the house they were headed towards. As they got closer, he could sense a handful of fuzzy spots, like his mind was trying to avoid thinking about them. These must have been the Specter team Forsythe had requested. Chey flashed back to his conversation with Forsythe, when he was told the pass phrases to confirm they were indeed Specters.

They touched down in the small yard at the back of the house, next to one of the fuzzy spots. He knocked on the tall fence and quietly called, "Stinger."

"Welcome to the neighborhood, Coyote," an American accent responded from beyond the divide.

"How's the Skeleton?"

"Still got one good eye."

"And the wildlife?"

"Quiet all day. Jackals left the den, Owl's in the nest, top floor. Twenty minutes to fly the coop."

"Got it."

"Might want to make yourself known. Owl's been anxious."

"Thanks." To Lupin, he said, "We're good."

Lupin lit a green light on the end of his wand and waved it over his head. Within a moment, the rest of their flight landed.

"We've got twenty minutes," Chey said to Moody.

Before anyone commented on the very put-togetherness of the house and backyard, Moody barked his orders. "McGonnagal, you and me first, search for traps."

Moody opened the back door with a wave of his wand and held it in front of him as he began surveying the kitchen. Chey, too, checked for any surprises, though in his own way. When they'd completed their sweep, they waved the rest of the party in.

"Tonks, you-" Moody started, only to be interrupted by a plate dropping to the floor next to a recoiling Tonks, whose hair flashed white for a second. Moody grumbled a moment before finishing his thought, "...stay clear of anything fragile. Jones, mind mending that?"

"Gotcha, Mad-Eye," said the witch with black hair, slightly older than Tonks. A twirl of her wand rejoined the shattered pieces of the ceramic plate.

"Specter says he's on the second floor," Chey said. "Probably heard us come in."

"How is he?" Lupin asked.

"He's up," Chey answered, directing his senses towards Harry. "Feels like he's on pins and needles. Better let him come to us."

"We'll wait at the landing," Moody announced.

"Not all of us," Chey corrected. "Just the ones he knows."

"Right. That'll be me, you, and Remus."

"And me," one of the older wizards raised his hand, this one was rather short, wearing a purple top hat.

"When did he know you, Dedalus?" Jones accosted him.

"Four years ago in the Leaky Cauldron," he answered proudly.

"Perhaps we'll keep to people he'll recognize right away," Lupin said diplomatically. More than half the people who came looked star-struck just standing in the kitchen.

The three chosen ambassadors moved to the lower landing at the end of the hall. When it was a minute before seeing anything, Chey suggested Moody try unlocking the door behind which Harry stood.

They could hear the latch click and the door's hinge creak. Soft-footed feet padded out to the upper landing until the wiry fifteen year-old frame stepped onto the upper landing, wand raised towards the house's intruders.

"Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone's eye out," Moody barked.

"Professor Moody?" the boy said with uncertainty.

"I don't know so much about 'Professor.' Never got round to much teaching, did I? Get down here, we want to see you properly."

Their person-of-interest lowered his wand, but kept on guard. This kid was smart indeed.

"Take it easy, Specks," Chey said. "We're moving you out."

"Chey?" the boy asked. He was still inquisitive, which Chey felt was understandable. After all, the last time they spoke, Chey had every intention of keeping his distance for an extended period. That was a mere two months ago.

"It's all right, Harry," Lupin interjected before Chey could explain. "We've come to take you away."

"P-Professor Lupin?" Harry asked in disbelief. "Is that you?"

"Why are you all standing in the dark?" Tonks interrupted, casting a lighting spell to illuminate the stairwell. The light was unwelcome to most, as they had since become accustomed to the dark. Still, they endured, finding Tonks had made her way to the landing where Chey, Moody and Lupin stood. When they had adjusted to the light, Tonks continued, "Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would. Wotcher, Harry!"

"Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus," said another of the crowd Harry wouldn't have recognized; a black wizard with a shaved scalp and a single gold earring, going by the name Kingsley Shacklebolt. "He looks exactly like James."

"So much for keeping it to familiar faces," Chey muttered.

"Are you quite sure it's him, Lupin?" Moody growled. "It'd be a nice lookout if we bing back some Death Eater impersonating him. We ought to ask him something only the real Potter would know."

"Harry, what form does your Patronus take?" Lupin asked.

"A stag," Harry answered.

"You think the enemy can't find that out?" Chey asked when Lupin looked satisfied. "Anyone watching when he was attacked would know it." Moody grunted, his face twisting into something that resembled a smirk. "Specks, when I left Hogwarts, you asked if I would come back."

"You said maybe when everything blows over," Harry answered. "So, why are you here now?"

"Kind of a long story." Chey glanced at Moody and said, "We're good."

Harry walked slowly down the stairs, clearly uncomfortable with everyone watching him. Halfway down, he must have realized he still had his wand out, so he made to tuck it into his back pocket.

"Don't put you wand there, boy!" Moody accosted him. "What if it ignited? Better wizards than you have lost buttocks, you know!"

"Who d'you know who's lost a buttock?" Tonks asked pointedly.

"Enough," Chey stopped them. His interjection drew looks from the older members of their party. They didn't expect commands from someone so young. "Lupin, answer his questions. Moody and I will check the perimeter."

Moody looked as if he wanted to say something in return, but instead headed out the back door with Chey.

"I got a tip from Muskrat," Chey said once they were out of earshot from the others.

"Ah, so that's why you're late."

"They're moving to block the appointment."

"They can't."

"New rules in the works that say they get to approve new staff appointments. It's got backing from most of the governors."

"Three guesses who rounded them up."

Chey glanced through the windows into the house to see the rest of the group still milling in the kitchen. "We're on a deadline, people!" he called to them. He watched them long enough to see they got back into action, with Tonks following Harry upstairs to collect his belongings. "Either way, looks like the Old Man will have a hard time getting someone he likes."

"Fudge would have reason to reject bloody everyone on the short list."

"Including you and me."

"What makes you think I'd go back?"

"You took the job last year for a reason."

"Favor to an old friend that's been used up. I'm better use at the front, anyway."

"Fair enough. Though I gotta wonder why I was on that list."

"Same reason we're here tonight: familiar face."

"I don't know if that would be enough," Chey said, leaning against the wall behind which their Specter contact was hiding. "And if I was him, I wouldn't put distance between me and the contacts I've made. They'll get nervous if I drop off the grid."

"On that subject," Moody inquired, "how's Muskrat fare?"

"He feels isolated. I don't blame him."

"Eh. I never envied the men who went undercover. Too many lies to keep straight, the chance someone might find you out. And Occlumency's nothing in a fight."

"The point is to keep him out of the fight. He's pretty well-placed, after the alienation from his family last year. All he's gotta do is bury himself in his work and no one will look twice."

"Long as he knows the risk," Moody dismissed.

"We made it clear."

"He's a boy."

"So he'll learn."

"War is a time for knowing, not learning."

"Thought that was why we kept old guys like you around?"

"Only works if you whelps will listen."

"You can't deny there's at least a touch of comedy in the arrogance of youth," Chey countered. "And didn't the old man say mirth was one of our weapons in this war?" He knocked on the fence behind him, "Stinger, how do we look?"

"We're solid, Coyote," the faceless Ghost answered.

"Got it. Give us two minutes." To Moody, he said, "Let's get them out of that house before they're completely mesmerized by the blender."

"Distracted by Muggle trinkets," Moody grumbled. "The Auror contingent's gone to shit."

"Hey, man, sometimes magic just can't purée a bisque like a rotating blade. Even the kitchens at Beauxbatons knew this."

Chey watched as Moody hobbled back into the house. Harry returned to the group, whereupon Lupin took a moment to explain that they were leaving a note for Harry's family. Given what Harry had said about his family, Chey doubted they would take much notice of his disappearance, let alone the note. Moody then beckoned Harry forward and rapped him on the head with his wand. Harry's skin and clothes then took on the appearance of the walls and appliances behind him. Moody had used a Disillusionment Charm, a kind of active camouflage for living things. As a practitioner of the Illusionary Arts, the charm was never on Chey's radar. But with his refocused approach to magic, perhaps it would be worth a look...

"Got any news from Panther?" Chey asked the Specter behind the fence.

"Negative," Stinger answered. "We're just here for overwatch."

"Sorry you had to spend all day on it."

"Part of the job, Coyote. But it's a little weird for us how uneventful today's been."

"Must be a suburb thing."

"You never know, kid. One time we found a whole militia in someone's basement just outside Boston."

"Maybe next time," Chey offered.

"I got a pair of old knees that are happy to relax for once. You have a safe flight, Coyote."

Moody led their party, including the disillusioned Harry into the back yard, brooms in hand.

"Clear night," Moody grunted, his odd eye sweeping the sky as ever. "Could've done with a bit more cloud cover. Right, Potter, we're going to be flying in close formation. Tonks'll be right in front of you, keep close on her tail. Lupin'll be covering you from below, McGonagall's on your right, I'm going to be behind you. The rest'll be circling us. We don't break ranks for anything, got me? If one of us is killed–"

"Is that likely?" Harry asked suddenly.

"–the others keep flying, don't stop, don't break ranks," Moody continued. "If they take out all of us and you survive Harry, the rear guard are standing by to take over; keep flying east and they'll join you."

"Stop being so cheerful, Mad-Eye, he'll think we're not taking this seriously," Tonks said as she strapped Harry's trunk and bird cage to a harness hanging from her broom.

"I'm just telling the boy the plan," the marred auror growled. "Our job's to deliver him safely to headquarters and if we die in the attempt–"

"No one's dying today," Chey interrupted. "The air is clear, so even if there is an attack, I'll feel them coming a mile away."

"Everyone get ready," Lupin said, looking toward the fence, whereupon a red light shone through the slats. As they all mounted their brooms, Chey could feel a sense of excitement from Harry, like a dog anxious to be let off the leash. A moment later, the red light became green.


	2. A Fox Among the Order

_**Chapter Two**_

 _ **A Fox Among the Order**_

* * *

The escorts and their charge kicked off into the night sky at the sight of that green light.

Once clear of the house and its many wards, Chey's mind became clearer once again. The only magically discernable indication the group was not alone was the aural signature of the backup team, half a mile away and closing, and the the bits of their surroundings which seemed out-of-focus, thus marking the Specters who were watching them.

Higher they climbed, the manicured-yet-still-dry lawns shrinking into a patchwork quilt of surrounding suburban neighborhoods enveloped in the darkness of night lit only by the meager light of streetlights and a sickle moon.

Between checks of their surroundings, Chey stole a few glances at Harry. The boy seemed genuinely happier than when Chey had last seen him. He wondered if Harry knew the dismal living conditions to which they were now flying. Chey supposed that if he was indeed aware, then living arrangements in Surrey must have been downright cruel for him to be excited about leaving. Though before long, that expression of joy was replaced by a grimace of having to endure the cold air.

Harry dutifully followed Tonks, his belongings swaying under her broom in the wind. Lupin flew below while the rest of the guard rotated around them. From behind, Moody barked orders at them to change direction throughout their flight as the whitewashed suburban sprawl gave way to busy freeways and and sparkling towns full of wandering eyes that would never expect to see a flock of flying broomsticks soaring overhead.

After seemingly one-too-many course corrections, Tonks retaliated, shouting from the front, "ARE YOU MAD, MAD-EYE?! We're all frozen to our brooms! If we keep going off course we're not going to get there until next week! We're nearly there now!"

"Skies are clear, Moody," Chey relayed his findings. "We're the only ones up here for miles. We're on a deadline, anyway."

Tonks then led them into a dive for the poorly-lit small part of the otherwise brilliant city of London that was their destination. The frigid air relented as they approached the streets and buildings below until they finally landed in the square from which the escorts first departed.

"Where are-" Harry started to ask, only to be cut off by Lupin, "In a minute."

As Tonks detatched Harry's trunk from her broom, Moody produced a small silver device looking much like a cigarette lighter. A small click of the device pulled the meager light of nearby street lamps into it, leaving the street even darker and more foreboding. The only light left came from nearby windows and a hint of moonlight from behind the clouds.

"Borrowed it from Dumbledore," Moody said as he pocketed the device. "That'll take care of any Muggles looking out of the window, especially now they're all curious about a certain car..." He shot a glance at Chey as he said it. He then rounded back on the still-camouflaged Harry, "Now, come on, quick."

The auror led Harry by the arm from the square across the street, past Chey's Vantage, and onto the walk in front of the row of houses. As Chey neared it, he saw the mysterious house labeled Number Twelve shift into existence between Eleven and Thirteen. Visibly, the house's facade was dreadful, even by the local standards, showing a chronic decay from years of neglect. Beneath that, Chey felt the house's magic was even worse. For a month, he'd been coming to this house, and the amalgamation of old, dark spells and malice still made him slightly ill.

Moody thrust a small piece of parchment into Harry's hand. "Here. Read quickly and memorize."

Harry read the words on the parchment which Chey knew had said "The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London." Chey had received a similar notice when Minerva had brought him here for the first time.

"What's the Order of the-?" Harry started

"Not here, boy!" Moody hissed. "Wait till we're inside!"

"But where's-?"

Moody took the parchment from Harry and set it alight, destroying it. Despite Harry being disillusioned, Chey could still make out his features at this close distance. Chey watched him as he saw the house reveal itself to his own eyes for the first time. That look of awe, of wonder, even, on Harry's face reminded Chey that Harry was fortunate enough to still have so much of the magical world unknown to him. Chey envied Harry for that, especially lately. Lately he wished he knew far less...

"You get used to it," Chey whispered as Moody hurried them to the door so scratched and decrepit, it matched the rest of the house. Amazingly, though, the silver snake-shaped door knocker hadn't tarnished nearly so much as the frame was rotting.

Lupin gave the door a single tap of his wand, opening the multitude of locks on the other side.

"Get in, but don't wander," Chey told Harry. The boy and his escorts crowded into the foyer before Moody let the street lamps' light back out, shut the door and disillusioned Harry.

"Now stay still, everyone, while I give us a bit of light in here," Moody whispered.

As the ancient gas lamps hissed to life, an ambience no brighter than the street outside filled the foyer, revealing the decayed state of the house to be the source of the musty odor. Old family portraits lined the peeling walls, some depicting people Chey doubted would ever have procreated to sustain their family's bloodline. Light from above came from a serpent-themed chandelier that was more cobweb than metal, and a rotted carpet no longer released any dust when stepped upon, for a month's worth of people walking on it had wedged the dust inescapably into the fibers.

Hurried footsteps announced the arrival of Molly Weasley, the short, plump, red-haired mother of Chey's associate, Charlie. When he'd met her, Chey had hardly any question this was the woman who raised Charlie, as well as his many siblings, even before being properly introduced. By a similar token, Molly had said she felt like she knew him already, what with her children's accounts of him. Chey still wondered if that was mean as a compliment, though he supposed it must be, for she never mentioned anything she'd read about him from an article in the paper.

"Oh, Harry, it's lovely to see you!" she whispered, taking the boy into a hug, the intensity of which Chey had yet to see her demonstrate to any of her actual children since knowing her. "You're looking peaky; you need feeding up, but you'll have to wait a bit for dinner, I'm afraid..."

"So he's here?" Chey asked her, keeping his voice down just like she did.

"Yes, they've just started," she answered. Chey took a split second to brace himself before maneuvering around Molly and through the door from which Molly entered the foyer, leaving Harry and Molly behind.

Chey entered the kitchen to find the rest of the order who'd bothered to show up tonight as the remainder of Harry's guard entered after him. Chief among the assembled was Dumbledore, hair and beard as long as ever, who, before Chey had arrived, had held the room's attention at the head of the table. At the other end was the head of the house, Sirius Black, who'd saved a seat for Chey next to him.

Meeting Sirius Black for the first time was something of an honor for Chey, and a bit odd for Sirius. Chey, being American and, thus, aware Sirius never stood trial, had held the belief that the conviction was a sort of cover-up. Learning of Sirius's actual innocence rocked Chey's world a bit. It was quite something to learn that the cover-up was unintentional by the Ministry, who had only sought swift justice for a heinous crime. Sirius, however, was shocked to learn he had an entire nation of supporters he could have fled to and claimed political asylum since he escaped Azkaban, though now it made no difference, as he'd already committed to fighting in this war in any way he could. Chey still assured him that, even if Forsythe couldn't protect him, Chey could use his family's resources to do so.

Taking a seat next to his new favorite fugitive, Chey surveyed the room to see who else was there as the rest of the escort flight filed in. Minerva sat next to Dumbledore, sending Chey a brief glance as he took his seat. Snape, the Potions Master from Hogwarts, sat with a desire to be anywhere else. Half asleep (or half-drunk) was Mundungus Fletcher, who Chey did his best to forget meeting, for he certainly didn't like the look of the man of short stature, bloodshot eyes and tattered clothing. And Chey kept a keen eye on the man's hands whenever he was near, even if he was nearly asleep.

Among the less-unpleasant characters was Arthur Weasley, Molly's husband, who sat with his oldest son, Bill. Chey found Arthur to be good company when he had to visit the Ministry's main office, and was glad to meet Bill again, having last done so at the Quidditch World Cup. Bill and Molly had been at Hogwarts for the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, but Chey's preoccupation with the event's preparations kept him from meeting them. Noticeably absent members of the Weasley clan were Charlie and Percy. Charlie remained at the dragon reservation in Romania, building international ties for the Order, but the entire Weasley clan was silent as to Percy's standing.

Once they were all seated and greeted, Dumbledore cleared his throat to bring attention back to himself.

"I trust Mister Potter has been brought here safely?" Dumbledore asked to no one in particular.

"An uneventful journey," Lupin answered, "if a bit brisk."

"Brisk?" Tonks interjected. "We nearly froze our ears off!"

"I imagine that would be a shame," Dumbledore offered, "losing a part of yourself you change so often."

At those words, Chey realized her familiar magic was that of a metamorphmagus, which was similar in structure to an animagus. It certainly explained the violently-purple hair.

"Now, to business," Dumbledore said, finally taking his own seat. "As it has already been said, Harry Potter has left the custody of his relatives and come here. Of course, it is never to be made known he is here specifically, but it will inevitably be known he has been moved. But all the same, we must continue to watch the Dursley home. If we can fool Voldemort," a shudder rippled through the room at the mention of that name, "into thinking Harry's relocation is a ruse, all the better, but the muggles must be protected regardless."

Sirius rolled his eyes at that, a gesture that was not missed by Dumbledore.

"If Dementors made their way to Little Whinging once, they could very well return."

"What would send them there in the first place?" Bill wondered aloud.

"They've gone off the reservation before," Lupin suggested. "Perhaps they were just rogue?"

"Bones tells me her people have them under control," Chey said, "but she can't vouch for everyone's loyalty."

"Very well," Dumbledore said. "Chey, would you stop by the Dursley's and investigate the wards in place? I'd like to know if they have changed since Harry has left, and I could use your analysis."

"Got it. I'll need to be briefed on how the kid's doing here, if the wards are like you said they are."

"And speaking of wards," he said, glancing at Minerva.

"The added protections for Hogwarts are in place, though Filius has asked for another set of eyes to double-check everything."

"Perhaps Alastor and your nephew could assist?"

"Should have time after the hearing," Chey said. Moody nodded in agreement.

"While you have the floor, Chey, have you had any word from your contact?" Sirius questioned.

"Ministry's taking another swing at you," Chey said, nodding towards Dumbledore. "They're quietly passing a measure called 'Educational Decree Twenty-One;' gives them oversight on staffing appointments at Hogwarts. It's got a majority support from the school's governors."

"I don't imagine they'd take kindly to my return," Lupin said.

"There are many names I am considering they would find unacceptable," Dumbledore admitted.

"Fudge has gone off the deep end a bit," Arthur said as Molly entered the room, back from showing Harry his sleeping arrangements. "There's no precedent for the Ministry to interfere like that."

"True, but they hardly needed to make up a reason," Chey explained. "Last couple people he hired include a werewolf, a half-giant, a fraud, and a retired auror who was locked up and impersonated for the whole year." Moody's face hardened at that last mentioning. Clearly, he was still sour on having been overpowered that day nearly a year ago. "And then there's me: all-around screw-up, half-breed, and last year's charity case. They're letting people make the assumption that if you can't use sense when bringing in students, how could you possibly pick a teacher without their help?"

"Any way around it?" Dumbledore hoped.

"Deliberations ended today, they vote on it tomorrow."

"Detractors?"

"Once someone mentioned 'the safety of children,' it kind of killed any debate. Political suicide to argue against that."

"Dirty trick," Sirius commented. Chey certainly agreed.

"We're taking a hit on this one. I suggest we try to work around it."

"But this could give them the precedent they need to really interfere with the school," Lupin observed.

"Unfortunate, but apparently inevitable," Dumbledore reflected. "If the Ministry moves to position their own people in Hogwarts, I would need someone of my own to counter them."

"Professor, you already have a school full of teachers on your side," Minerva said.

"And they will have their hands full preparing their students for the world outside," Dumbledore countered politely. "This would require a full-time defense."

"Unless we could maneuver someone on our side into the job," Chey suggested, "but let Fudge think it was his pick."

"Not enough time to get a double agent in," Moody said. "And Fudge wouldn't give the job to someone he didn't trust absolutely."

"What about your own source in the Ministry?" Minerva asked Chey. "Could the Minister be convinced to select him?"

"He's not quite that close," Chey explained, "and I wouldn't want to risk losing him in the position he has. He's too valuable where he is right now."

"What about an auror?" Sirius proposed, looking at Kingsley.

"I would take the job if it meant someone else could take over keeping the Ministry off your heels, Sirius," Kingsley said. "But the Minister wouldn't select just any auror. They would want someone they could control absolutely."

"Which would rule out pretty much all the aurors," Moody said. "Bones has too much sway over them."

"Well, whoever it is, they'll probably announce it as late as possible," Chey said. "I'll start digging up dirt on his inner circle, maybe we can narrow down who it'll be."

"Excellent," Dumbledore said. "Anything more from your source?"

"Just one: Fudge wants Harry convicted at the hearing, so he'll definitely try something to shift opinion in his favor. They haven't decided what it'll be, but a last-minute change of time and venue seem to be on the table."

"Arthur, we'll plan on taking Harry to the Ministry early that day."

"Yes, Professor."

"Is there any other business?"

"I'd like to switch up the guard rotation, Albus," Moody said. "Same people every three nights'll rouse suspicion."

"Do as you see fit, Alastor." To Snape, he said, "Tell him Harry is here, and we have been spending more time dealing with the Ministry than finding ways to resist him. That should satisfy him for now."

Snape took the instructions as his dismissal and stood to leave before Dumbledore had a chance to ask, "Is there anything further?"

"Have we had a word with that one about leaving his post?" Chey asked, pointing to Mundungus, who had fallen asleep during the discussion. A scowl appeared on Molly's face as she glared at the slumbering miscreant. Chey's voice did nothing to stop Snape from departing, not that anyone was complaining.

"Mister Fletcher is aware of the consequences of his actions," Dumbledore dismissed the concern, though for Chey it was far from abated. "Then let us adjourn for the time being. I'm sure there is much for us all to do tonight."

Chey noticed Sirius sigh quietly at Dumbledore's last words. He'd been cooped up in the house since making it available to the Order almost two months ago, leaving him almost nothing to do. He had been glad of the company, having very little while on the run. Though he did confess to Chey that having a fan was a bit odd, he was glad more people believed his innocense.

Chairs scraped on the floor as the meeting's attendants filed out, careful not to make too much noise in the hallway.

"Good to see you again, lad," Sirius clapped Chey on the shoulder. "Stay for dinner?"

"I'd like to, but somewhere I gotta be," Chey answered.

"And you'd take me if you could," Sirius repeated the sentiment he'd heard from Chey so many times since meeting him.

"Plenty of space at my house," Chey finished. Then, sparing a glance at the slumbering Mundungus Fletcher, guided Sirius a short distance away. "Look, are we sure we want _that_ one with us for these meetings?"

"Dumbledore and Molly have already had words with him."

"He's a liability," Chey declared.

"He's an asset," Lupin interrupted. "In order to have a connection to the unsavory world, you need an unsavory person."

"And Dumbledore trusts him," Sirius said. "Not many thieves have that."

"Trust is earned," Chey said.

"He is indebted to Dumbledore for getting him out of trouble some years ago," Lupin explained. "Seems to be enough for Dumbledore."

"And all criminals make good on their debts, right?" Chey said. Finally, he sighed, saying, "You might want to lock up the silver while he's around. I think I saw him pocket something last time he was here."

"With as much as we're throwing out-" Sirius started, only to be interrupted by a clatter from the hallway, followed by the now all-too-familiar screams of Mrs. Black's portrait espousing the defiling of her home by muggle, half-breed and blood traitor "filth." Sirius took off to deal with his mother's deranged portrait, cursing, "'Filth' yourself, woman!" leaving Chey and Lupin in the kitchen.

"Sometimes in war, you don't get to choose your allies," Lupin said, putting a pin in the discussion, though it still didn't sit well with Chey. The man had already left his post to serve himself once, so who was to say he wouldn't do it again when the stakes were even higher?

"Oi, Chey," Bill approached him. "Staying for dinner?"

"No, there's somewhere I gotta be," Chey replied.

"Well, before you go, could I have a word in private?"

"Sure," Chey answered, slightly intrigued. He and Bill hadn't done much business together to warrant a private chat, but all the same Chey nodded to Lupin, who stepped away to offer them solitude. Bill seemed a bit nervous over what he was about to say.

"Something wrong?" Chey asked.

"Well, you were seeing that French girl, Fleur Delacour, right?"

Chey's jaw clenched for a second before he answered, "Yeah."

"See, she just started a job at Gringott's, where I'm working." Bill hesitated before asking, "Is there anything I should know if, you know, I have to work with her?"

"She's a quarter-Veela. Might want to keep your guard up."

"Veela! Well, that explains it," Bill said. Upon further gaze from Chey, Bill continued, "See, on her first day, I found myself trying to chat her up and, well, she would hardly give me the time of day."

"Old habit of her's," Chey said. "Dismissal is second-nature for her."

"Yeah, but then, me being a bit thick, I started reaching for something to talk about and, well, your name came up."

Chey raised an inquisitive eyebrow at this.

"I just remembered reading the two of you were together and... I asked her if you still were..."

Bill looked braced for retribution. When it didn't come, he continued.

"She... seems to think you went back to America..."

"That's because I did."

"Well, it doesn't seem like she knows you... sort of... came back..."

"I don't see that she needs to know," Chey answered, his temper getting short.

"So you're keeping things from her, then?"

"Looks like it, doesn't it?"

"Has that worked out well for you before?" Bill asked rhetorically.

"Everything's fine." Of course, Chey couldn't admit out loud that keeping secrets from her never worked well, usually resulting in more than a few slaps to his face, but having her around right now would bring undue complications. He did wonder if Bill had consulted Charlie on Chey's previous attempts to keep information from Fleur before speaking to him, though. Charlie always liked reminding Chey of his elderly, having-dealt-with-women-before wisdom. "Just keep your guard up around her, in case she uses her charm to get something she wants."

"Think she would?" Bill asked, now more worried for himself.

"She used to, at least."

"Well, you might want to consider telling her where you are, mate, especially if you're both living in the same city."

"Noted," Chey said, moving away. He didn't wish to hear any more on the subject.

Chey pushed his way past the other members of the Order as they silenced the irate portraits on the walls. He caught a glimpse of Harry, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasley clan coming down the stairs, but decided to avoid a full reunion. Harry had surely shared their last words with his friends and they could speculate on his early return plenty without him. His explanation to them could wait.

Finally reaching the door and leaving, he found Minerva standing just outside, her face as stoic as ever.

"You knew I wouldn't stay long," Chey said when he saw her.

"I'd be a poor sister to my brother if I didn't," she answered. Gazing at the silver sports coupe, she said, "I see you're still avoiding magical transportation."

"It's a good engine," Chey deflected. "Be a shame to let it go to unused."

"That's your father speaking," she said, slightly sentimental. "You never did tell me why you returned."

"You're right," Chey agreed. "I didn't."

"Is it because you don't know why?"

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea why."

"I see," she said. "Someone asked you, then."

"Maybe someone did."

"Well, it wasn't Dumbledore," she guessed, eyeing him carefully. "And if you're working with Amelia Bones..."

Chey's expression betrayed him.

"Warren," she said with disgust.

"Wasn't an option," Chey explained. "Class Echo license comes with some caveats."

Her mood shifted. "Do you need help?"

"I know where to go if I do, Em." Chey made his way to his car and unlocked it.

"Be careful," she said as he opened the driver's door.

"Come on, Em," he said, just before he got behind the wheel. "It's me, remember?"


	3. Honesty

_**Chapter Three**_

 _ **Honesty**_

* * *

The silver Aston Martin prowled yet more streets that night, weaving through traffic now that rush hour had subsided.

Chey found himself irate as three busses decided to take up the entirety of the bus lane which covered the left turn he must make, forcing him to miss his turn.

"And here I thought London had a subway and didn't need busses," he grumbled, pushing the accelerator pedal to pass the obstacles and take the next turn, trying to find the street he'd missed. The ordeal quickly reminded him of when he'd visited London last winter, having to follow hastily-written instructions and getting lost before finally asking a local for directions and a map.

At last he found his destination, finding a parking space a block away. He quickly ran his hand along the hood of the car, to make sure the wards were in place. No part of London felt safe for a high-dollar sports car to him, even if it was British.

Despite checking the wards himself, he still glanced back at the car when he'd reached the rowhouse he was looking for. Something about owning the car himself lent it a special significance to him.

Knocking on the door twice, he waited for an answer. A moment later, a man with green eyes and thick, curly hair answered. He stood at an average height, but had very little body mass to speak of.

"I'm here for Doctor Tennyson," Chey said to him.

"Ah, yes," the man answered, pulling out a small notebook. "She did mention an eight-thirty appointment. Could I get your name, please?"

"Wesson," Chey replied. In the interest of discretion, he'd used his mother's maiden name when setting up the appointment. Since much of magical England knew him as Chey McGonagall, nephew to Professor Minerva McGonagall and last year's Mediator for the Triwizard Tournament, someone going by "Mister Wesson" would attract far fewer eyes.

"Excellent. Well, come on in," the man said, offering his hand. "Carver Tennyson, if we haven't already been introduced."

"We haven't," Chey said. The man spoke like he'd said these things before.

"Sorry, lad, but sometimes the wife sees fit to have me erase a few memories from myself," the man smiled. "All about that doctor-patient confidentiality, you see. Come on and have a seat in the parlor while you wait. Would you like me to take your coat?"

Chey obliged, reflecting on his last visit to this house. That time, he hadn't been waited on by a dutiful husband of the Doctor's. Instead, Doctor Glenna Tennyson had greeted him at the front door herself.

Taking his seat in the parlor, he waited his turn. Well, perhaps it had started life as a parlor, but now was a full-fledged waiting room leading to her office, complete with art pieces and magazines to placate anxious patients. Carver Tennyson gave the office door two dutiful knocks and departed after hanging Chey's coat on a hall tree. Half a moment later, the door opened.

"Welcome back, Mister Wesson," she said, peering through the open door. She stood short and curvy, with long straight brown hair framing her pale, freckled face and brown eyes.

Chey stood and followed her into the office. Inside, the shelves were lined with books, to project literary understanding. Her desk was tucked in the corner and facing the wall, suggesting openness. Finally, the therapy domain consisted of two identical armchairs, angled towards one another, offering intimacy. She had explained all of this at the end of their first session, though she hadn't divulged why it was explained.

"To be honest," she said, closing the door behind him, "I gave you even odds you wouldn't return."

"Why's that?" Chey asked, standing next to one of the chairs. She seemed so eager to talk at the end of their last session, it seemed polite to offer her more opportunities.

"You seemed a bit put off by our last session. All it really consisted of was small-talk."

"I'd noticed that," Chey said.

"That's how I like to gauge my patients. First impressions count for a lot in my business." She took a seat in one of the chairs. "If you like, we can start tonight with why you felt you need to see me."

"It's that easy for you, huh, Doc?" Chey said, looking down upon her.

"Please, call me 'Glenna,'" she said, gesturing to the other chair. "And it's only as easy as you make it for me."

She was starting to remind him of Edward, but Chey put that out of his mind and took his seat.

"So, what brings you here?" she asked.

"You read the papers much?" Chey started.

"When I can," she admitted. "I'm usually reading patient notes, but sometimes the news crosses my eyes."

"Well, it kind of starts last year. I'd just got kicked out of Beauxbatons – it's a school in France..."

"I know of it. Go on."

"So the old man comes to me, asks if I want to go to Hogwarts."

"Dumbledore, right?"

"...Yeah. Offers me the Mediator- a position in this... contest. Promises me the chance to see my friends again. I mean, what else could I say, right?"

"Always good to maintain friendships," she said. "Only natural for you to accept."

"Yeah, so there I was, taking care of... what was going on. Of course, fate would have it my friends are participating, so the whole time I'm caught between moral impartiality and loyalty to friends. Bottom line, trying to toe the line cost me both."

"Elaborate on that."

"...At times it felt like I'd lost my impartiality, but still alienated my friends."

"Any friends in particular?"

"No," Chey answered quickly.

"All right," she accepted. "Carry on, then."

"We get to the last event, and it's pretty much a free-for-all. Everyone's fighting everyone, and they've all got even odds."

"So any damage you might have caused was nullified."

"In a perfect world, yes." Chey looked down at these next words. "But there were complications."

"Someone didn't play by the rules?"

"I've realized now that rules in this world are meant to be broken. Nothing is sacred."

"What about laws? Surely something is concrete."

"Rules are broken, laws are changed," Chey said, still avoiding eye contact with her. "That night I learned that morals are ignored."

"Some people can't be helped," Glenna tried to comfort him with platitudes. He couldn't blame her for it; it was her job, after all.

"Some people are evil," Chey said, remembering the Imposter.

"Evil only triumphs when good men fail," she said. Her platitudes fell on deaf ears.

"Well, I guess we failed."

Glenna took a moment to think before speaking. "I know this bothers you, but I'm sensing there's something deeper bothering you. People don't come to me with problems they've already dissected."

Chey spared a sideways glance at her, but said nothing.

She sighed, then leaned forward. "To be honest, my husband was following the Triwizard Tournament like a dog chasing cars. I must confess, even I found some of the personal stories amusing. Point is, I know your name, Mister McGonagall, and I know you were close to all the champions. I assumed you required anonymity when you introduced yourself as 'Mister Wesson,' your mother's maiden name."

Chey would have ended things then and there, but something about her insight was comforting.

"I have my husband erase his memory of certain things when necessary," she continued. "That's why he didn't recognize you, even though he read's the _Prophet_ every day."

Chey eyed the door, ready to leave at a moment's notice. She must have noticed this.

"Confidentiality is everything to me," she said. "That's why you're 'Mister Smith' in my notes. To do my job, I need you to trust me, and if I don't have your trust, then I am nothing."

A moment of contemplation later, Chey eased his grip on the armchair. He did his best to avoid her gaze.

"And you're telling me all of this to convince me to stay," he voiced his train of thought.

"Of course," she said. "I can only help you if I'm honest with you. I know from our last session that you don't like tricks, especially when they're played on yourself."

"And who's to say this isn't a trick?" Chey said. "I could assume you're lulling me into a false sense of security."

"That would be for you to decide. All I can ask is you trust me with your secrets. I was seeing patients for several years before I met my husband, and you can imagine how desperately I wanted to shout it from the rooftops when I learned he was a wizard. But some secrets aren't meant for the world, only the people you trust, right?"

Chey found it hard to respond to that. After a single one-hour session, she seemed to know him better than so many others did. He was soon grateful for Lenny's connections having led him to her. Lenny's status as a non-magical person, yet aware of the magical world made him a member of a unique club of sorts, usually leading to business connections. Through this network, Lenny had found, at Chey's request, a prominent muggle psychiatrist married to a wizard residing in London. If not for this network, finding her may well have been impossible for Chey.

"Now, why don't you start with what happened in the Third Task?" she asked him.

After a deep breath, Chey began, "I was patrolling on top of the hedges when something knocked me down. Looking back on it, it was probably Crouch's son. Whole world thought he was dead, but he'd spent nine months disguised as a teacher. He put a strong barrier over the maze, so no one could get out, not even me. Then he set the Imperius Curse on Viktor."

"That's the one that controls other people, right?"

"That's the one. He used Viktor to attack the others. I got them away from him, so he went after me."

"Viktor was your friend?"

"They all were," Chey said.

"Must have been hard, having to fight your friend."

"By the time I got to him, I recognized the curse for what it was. I knew I wasn't fighting Viktor."

"How did you manage that?"

"Manage what?"

"How did you know it was that _specific_ curse?"

Chey averted his eyes from her while he thought about answering. Honesty and trust were important here and he did come seeking help, but it was only their second session.

"Confidentiality, right?" he said, lightly tapping the arm of his chair.

"Nothing leaves this room."

"But you leave this room on occasion, right? People like me have ways of getting things, even if you don't want to give them up."

"You are taking a gamble, telling me anything. But I also took a gamble, letting a talented wizard such as yourself into my home office, where the number one rule is that my husband, my only means of protection, does not come across that threshold," she said, pointing at the door.

"You ever hear that rules are meant to be broken?"

"And there is always an exception. My patients come first here."

Chey still hadn't looked at her, instead tracing the stitching on the chair's arm.

"If I feel this knowledge isn't relevant to helping you, I will ask you to erase it from my memories," she said finally. "You are aware of the memory modification charm?"

The idea of using magic now bothered him, but not so much as the idea of a safety net consoled him.

"When I was thirteen, I was expelled. This particular school honors that occasion by breaking your wand."

"That must have been difficult," she empathized.

"I guess it would have been. Turns out my wand didn't want to be broken. When they dropped the axe, it shattered. And all the pieces dug into my right arm."

"What do you mean?"

Chey answered by lighting up the pieces. All around his arm were tiny shards of light, like splinters, all pointed in a different direction. She stared, mesmerized.

"Since then," he explained, letting the lights fade to disappearance, "I can feel magic just like any of my other senses. Every spell has a different feel to it, especially the dark ones. That's how I knew it wasn't Viktor."

"So you cast magic without a wand?"

"I pretend to use a wand," Chey answered. "But yeah, I don't need to since this one's a part of me."

"I assume this is uncommon in your circles."

"As far as I've been told, it's never happened before."

"And you would keep it a secret?"

"Would you want to be poked and prodded by people who want to know how it happened just so they can do it themselves?"

"I suppose not," she admitted. "Then you used this to fight the man controlling your friend."

"Yeah. Then he got me with the Cruciatus."

"The... torture curse?" she asked, seeking confirmation. Chey nodded. "How bad?"

"I'm a... unique case. You ever heard of Veela?"

"I read up on them a bit. From a professional perspective, I've found them... interesting."

"My great-grandmother was one," Chey said. "And that's enough for me to qualify as 'having Veela blood.' So I have a different reaction to the Cruciatus. I still get the pain, but it'll also pin me to the wall. Apparently, that's how my blood fights back when it's cursed, though I don't see how that counts as self-defense."

"With something intricately complex as magic, I'm sure there are bound to be a few things that don't make sense," she said, deftly dismissing his attempt to veer off-subject. "Would you like to tell me what happened next?"

Chey gritted his teeth for a moment. Best to get it over with, he supposed.

"Something... snapped. One second, it's like a million hot needles jabbed in every bone in my body, and the next..."

"...It's okay," she filled in the pause, though Chey was only looking for the right words.

"Something... took over. It used me and my wand to break the curse and fight Viktor."

"Did it hurt Viktor?"

"No, it broke the curse on him, too. Sent a backlash to the caster. Then that whole night, it was in control of me, saying things I wouldn't say. I finally got to sleep and had this... dream." He wasn't sure if that was the right word, since it didn't feel like a dream, but it was all he had at the moment.

"What was the dream about?"

"The thing... spoke to me." Reflecting on what it had said, Chey knew the words were going to sound ridiculous, but she'd not outwardly judged him so far. "It said it was some ancient spirit possessing me since my... since I was a little kid. Called itself 'Deimos.' Said it was the reason my wand wouldn't leave me, since it was made for his daughter centuries ago."

"Is it possible it's true?" she asked. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you that magic is real."

"It looked just like me in the dream. And the way it talked about itself, like it was important... It's how I used to act when I was younger. I always had to be important where I was."

"So you think it's a reflection of your past self?"

"It makes sense, right? It showed up when I was tortured."

She considered his words for a moment. "It's possible. There are recorded cases of trauma causing split personalities. Normally the trauma occurs during early development, but later onset is possible..."

"And now I can't go a single day without hearing it in the back of my head, talking about-"

"Wait," she interrupted. "You hear it?"

"Every day. Always got an opinion on something. I'm learning to tune it out, but-"

"Have you ever lost time? Found yourself in a new place some time later with no memory of how you got there?"

"Um, no," Chey answered hesitantly. "I think I have all my time accounted for."

"Interesting..."

"What is?" She only shook her head, bringing her folded hands up to her chin.

 _She is deflecting_ , Chey couldn't help but hear Deimos's thoughts.

"I'm curious," she said, her eyes still lost in thought, "did it ever hurt anyone?"

"I... I don't, well, I'm pretty sure it did some damage on Crouch's son."

"What about someone who didn't mean to harm you?"

"Well, it threatened the Minister of Magic, but it didn't go beyond words."

"Has it done anything you might think to be dangerous?"

Chey thought back to that night, then to Edward's analysis of the events. He'd theorized the possibility that this... thing... was there to protect him. But a loss of control over his own body still scared him.

"Do you drive a car?" Chey asked her.

She was a bit taken-aback by this. "Y-yes, on occasion."

"Imagine you're driving on a busy street, and all of a sudden, the brake pedal and the steering wheel don't work for you. You go like this for five miles before you get control again. You don't veer off the road and no one gets hurt, but aren't you still scared out of your skin about what might have happened?"

"I suppose you're right;" she admitted, "anything is possible should it happen again. So you want to get rid of it and keep from losing control again."

"Think you can do it?"

"You're forgetting I'm not a magical therapist. I can only help you get there. The last steps are up to you."

"Right," Chey answered. There were no guarantees in life, after all.

"And it will be easier if you surround yourself with people who understand what you're going through. Now, have you confided in anyone other than me?"

Looking back, it would have been only logical to tell Minerva and Fleur, the two closest people in his life. Yet somehow, the idea of admitting to them something was wrong with him felt like a sort of betrayal. The only one he'd really told was Edward, Chey thought, and the two of them had parted ways in mutual respect when Chey left Hogwarts. It was a shame, since Edward had been the best sort of friend Chey'd had, accepting of his flaws, quick to call him out on a mistake, but never holding judgement.

"No one," Chey answered.

"Really?" Doctor Tennyson pressed. "No one in your family?"

"No."

"Well, we all hide things from our families. Any friends, perhaps?"

Chey shook his head.

"I seem to recall an article saying you were involved with the champion from Beauxbatons..."

"I think our hour is up," Chey said, standing abruptly and leaving the room.

Doctor Tennyson did nothing to stop him, not even point out they had another twenty minutes left. As Chey left, he could hear the scratching of a pen on paper.


	4. Orders

_**Chapter Four**_

 _ **Orders**_

* * *

Frustration gave Chey a heavy right foot for the rest of the night. If not for the wards on the Vantage, he certainly would have incurred a few speeding tickets as he drove to his final destination for the evening.

Finally arriving in Westminster, he found the one-way street of Portman Square. Turning left into the porte-cochère behind the white columns of the Churchill Hotel, he finally came to a stop. Like clockwork, the valet dashed around the car to open the door for Chey.

"Welcome back, sir," the man of about twenty years old said, smartly dressed in his freshly dry-cleaned uniform. It wasn't surprising the man recognized Chey, since it was the man's job to remember people, especially the ones with memorable cars. "Are you in for the evening?"

"I am," Chey said, snatching his light briefcase from the passenger seat and climbing out of the car. The man never held his hand out, so instead Chey tucked a ten pound note into his shirt pocket.

"I'll see that it's well looked-after, sir." The man waited for Chey to cross to the hotel's front door before getting into the Vantage and driving it to the hotel's nearby parking garage.

The pomp and circumstance of the hotel felt a bit much to Chey, but when looking for a place to stay in London, he supposed it would be nice to not have to change the sheets himself. Staying in a hotel also allowed him a better cover for his presence in England. It wasn't all that unusual for representatives from other countries to stay in hotels while they did business, and they always tended to be fancy hotels.

Chey was a bit surprised they hadn't objected to his attire, though. Normally, someone walking in wearing jeans, a t-shirt and black leather coat would be turned away at the door. Chey then supposed that since he'd made the reservation under his real name, they were willing to let certain customs slide to allow for a wealthy client from a well-to-do family such as himself. He didn't like cashing in on his family's name like that, but the days for him lately were long, and he disliked the idea of spending them in a three-piece suit.

The lobby was rendered in an opulence befitting a five-star hotel, with references to Winston Churchill scattered throughout. Making his way past the restaurant and bar, he approached the front desk, behind which stood the concierge. He was in his forties, but had kept his full head of hair, turning gray on the sides, and stood very stiff in a _very_ expensive-looking suit.

"Good evening, Mister McGonagall," he greeted him with a welcoming smile.

"Evening, Leland," Chey answered politely, doing his best to bury his frustration from earlier.

"Checking in for the evening, sir?"

"That's right."

Leland produced the ledger and a pen so Chey may sign in. "What time will you be departing tomorrow, sir?"

"The usual, around six-thirty."

"I will see that your car is ready for you then."

"Thank you."

"And I believe we received a message for you, sir," Leland said, pecking through the collection of phone messages before finding the right one. "...Here we are, from a Mister Leonard Byrne. He wishes to convey your father's car has been completely restored to its original condition."

"That's good to finally hear," Chey said.

"Eh, if you don't mind my asking, sir," Leland said with a slightly raised eyebrow. "What sort of car does your father have?"

"He had a few," Chey under-stated. "The one in question is a sixty-nine Dodge Charger."

"Ah," Leland's eyes lit up at hearing that. "Magnum or Hemi?"

"The four-twenty-six."

"Very good, sir," he smiled broadly. "An excellent specimen for restoration. Would you like to place an order for room service, sir?"

"Kind of lost my appetite," Chey said. "But I could probably use a Scotch. Mind sending up a bottle for me?"

"Of course, sir. I have an eighteen-year Speyside single-malt I imagine you might enjoy."

"The good stuff might be wasted on me tonight, Leland. Still got some work to do, so I might not be able to enjoy it as much as I should."

"The twelve-year, then?"

"That'll be fine."

"I'll see to it myself, sir."

"Thanks, Leland."

"Always welcome, Mister McGonagall."

Chey left the desk and headed for the elevators. Leland seemed very old-fashioned in his approach to his job, but Chey supposed a five-star hotel in the middle of London needed someone like that for the sort of clients the business was likely to attract. He had eyed Chey with suspicion when he'd first checked in, dressed in the same sort of attire he wore tonight. But the concierge's attitude changed over time, perhaps because Chey defied the "young money" convention, never bringing company, making noise late at night, or leaving a wake of damage. He also left before most guests awoke and returned after they'd checked in. Add in the bottle service (a big profit margin for hotels), and Chey might just be his favorite resident right now.

The elevator doors opened, allowing a portly middle-aged man with wispy white hair, dressed in a white shirt and tartan vest to exit. If Chey hadn't run into him here, he would have seen him sitting at the bar, where he always ended up anyhow, usually to put distance between himself and his wife.

"Evening, Lad," he said. "Productive day?"

"As ever, Baldwin," Chey answered. "Keep yourself out of trouble, all right?"

"No guarantees, my boy," Baldwin smiled and winked. He'd been interesting to talk to, the few times Chey had sat down to talk to him, but most conversations boiled down to jokes about his wife and being married to her for so long.

Chey entered the elevator and selected the top floor. He rode alone until he reached the top and turned right down the hall, finding his suite.

Five seconds after opening the door, the room's phone rang, barely giving him time to turn on the lights.

"Evening, Coyote," Chey heard the polite Carolina accent of Warren Forsythe when he picked up the receiver.

"If you're gonna spy on me to know when I get in, at least give me a minute to take off my shoes," Chey answered, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto the bed.

"Time is critical."

"Sixty seconds is gonna change the fate of the world?"

"It could. More has happened in less time than that," Forsythe said. "Now I'd like to hear some news from you."

Chey set his briefcase on the desk and opened it, pulling out the various memos passed to him through the day. He figured he'd best start with what he'd learned from his contact, since it wasn't written down anywhere.

"Muskrat tells me the Baker sniffed out the collaborative training program. Figured we'd try to slip Ghosts in with the Auror Service."

"Well, he's got good intuition, I'll give him that. It was a long shot, anyway. What next?"

"New measure moving forward giving them oversight of school staff appointments."

"Any way to block it?"

"Too many wheels already in motion."

"That's too bad. I want to keep the Old Man on our side, and that would have written a nice I.O.U. check."

"And it gives them grounds to appoint someone of their own. There's still a vacancy to fill."

"That's another problem. Would have liked to keep a nice buffer between him and them. Might have to get someone of our own in there to run interference. How about our V.I.P.?"

"Owl's in safe hands until his hearing. Muskrat thinks they'll try something last-minute, so I'm keeping an ear out."

"Good. I want you to help with Owl's defense, and make a splash."

"I'll get the details of the incident from Skeleton. Might need some research from you, though."

"Whatever you need. But make sure the Baker doesn't know you're part of the defense until the minute it starts."

"Got it."

"News from any other fronts?" Forsythe said as Chey heard a knock at his door.

"I connected with someone in Creature Regulation," Chey said, picking up the phone and crossing to the door. "I'm meeting with him in a few days."

Chey opened the door, revealing Leland with a room service cart. On top of the cart were two glasses, an ice bucket, and an unopened bottle of twelve-year Glenlivet.

"Here we are, sir," Leland said, and Chey waved him in, the receiver still held to his ear.

"This going somewhere?" Forsythe's voice pervaded in Chey's ear as Leland unwrapped the foil on the bottle and popped the cap.

"I'm thinking we can salvage the collaborative training program," Chey said.

"Thinking outside the box today?"

"I've still got some contacts in Nevada." Chey nodded when Leland gestured to the ice bucket, then went back to his discussion with Forsythe as the concierge used the ice tongs to fill the glass, then poured the distilled spirit over the ice.

"And we could get our own people in Nevada before the exchange..."

"Gives us a chance to share information with good people."

"Assuming they are good people," Forsythe said, soberingly.

"MacFusty operate independently," Chey said. Leland had finished pouring and presented the drink to Chey, who took the glass, exchanging it with another ten pound note.

"Many thanks," Leland said softly, so as not to interrupt the phone conversation. "Good night, sir."

"Interesting," Forsythe said. "Be nice to work with a clean slate for once."

Leland departed, but not without enough noise for Forsythe to notice.

"You got company?" Forsythe said.

"Just the concierge bringing up some Scotch." Chey said honestly.

"Can't resist a nightcap, can you?"

"I find it easier to deal with you when I've got whiskey in hand."

Chey imagined Forsythe grinned at those words. "Well, I imagine _you're_ easier to deal with when you've got whiskey in hand."

"In that case, I'll be sure to file it as a business expense."

"Wouldn't be the first time the Department paid for someone's liquor habit," Forsythe said. "Everything under control?"

"It's fine," Chey answered, taking a swig from the glass as he collapsed into a chair by the desk. A strong taste of peat pervaded over the bite of the alcohol in the drink.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Perhaps Forsythe was gauging Chey's response.

"What's your in with Creature Control?" he finally asked.

"Man's son was a friend of mine. We've reminisced over his memory."

"...Right, the sacrificial lamb," Forsythe said. "Almost forgot a boy died that day."

"A lot of people did," Chey said. "Baker made sure of that."

"Sometimes I envy their state-funded media," Forsythe lamented, dismissing the sentiment about Cedric. "Any biters lately?"

"No big hitters, just little fish. I'm starting to think the old families already figured out their allegiance."

"We knew it was a possibility. Send me the names you got, we'll see what we can do with them. How's your contact?"

"He'll be fine, as long as he keeps his cover. I've got regular contact with him, seems to keep him grounded."

"Make sure you keep that up. From what you've told me, he's in a tough spot, and he'll need someone to help him keep his head in the game."

"You dealt with undercovers before?"

"Too often," Forsythe said soberly. "It's a hard life; not everyone can keep it up."

"If he's anything like the rest of his family, he'll be fine."

"So you know all of them?" the Secretary asked. "Do they know?"

"It's critical they don't," Chey answered. "Part of his cover."

"If that's the case, you're his only lifeline. Remember that."

"Got it," Chey said. He was growing tired of these reminders.

"Any other concerns?" Chey could tell Forsythe wanted to wrap up this exchange quickly.

"I want a background on Fletcher," Chey said, getting his last concern out in the open. "He rubs me the wrong way."

"Already done," Forsythe answered. "I'll send you the findings."

"Send them here. I'll look at them tomorrow night."

"Sleep well, Coyote."

"Good night, Panther."

Chey hung up the phone, feeling relieved. Another sip of Scotch brought more relief. Until the voice spoke again.

 _You are conflicted_ , it said.

"You're annoying," he spit back.

 _Why leave the girl?_

"Why do you care?"

 _Could it be shame?_ Chey said nothing. _Perhaps I am a blight in your eyes, unworthy to share space with a beauty such as her._

"I don't even want you in my own head," Chey said. "Of course I don't want you near her."

 _Intriguing._

"What now?"

 _You presume me to be a part of your mind. A part from your past, before she changed you._

Chey stayed quiet. Deimos would finish the thought on his own, not needing to be prompted.

 _You would have me leave, lest you regress to immaturity. Yet you distance yourself from the one who improved you. Would not the risk of regression be reduced with her in closer proximity?_

"She's put up with me enough as it is."

 _Then you would not burden her with your ordeal, despite your goal being closer with her assistance. That is your confliction._

"You're _my_ problem, not hers."

 _Stubborn will such as your own has toppled nations. You suppose yourself immune to these consequences?_

"Whatever they are, I'll deal with it."

There was a moment's glorious silence before Deimos started again. _You are wise to suspect the thief._

"Seemed like a good idea."

 _What might you imagine they see?_

"They trust too easily," Chey answered.

 _And you do not._

"I don't even trust _you_."

 _A fair judgement. I wonder how much longer that will be?_

Chey drained the last of his glass, then allowed himself the small luxury of levitating the bottle and ice bucket to the desk, making it easier to pour himself another drink.


	5. Government

_**Chapter Five**_

 _ **Government**_

* * *

Morning broke a few days later, and the summer sun had only just begun warming London's streets when Chey parked his Vantage in a multi-story garage and started the walk to the Ministry of Magic's visitor entrance.

A block and a half later, he turned down the ramshackle alleyway and stepped into the decrepit phone booth. Dialing six-two-four-four-two, the disembodied woman's voice spoke, "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Chey McGonagall, United States Department of Sorcery Liaison."

Out of the change slot dropped the badge he was meant to wear, square and silver, bearing his name, the title he gave, and the words, "Verified Ministry Guest."

"Your badge is to be worn for the duration of your stay," the voice explained. Chey was growing tired of the boilerplate he had to hear every morning. "Guests must depart by eight o'clock in the evening. Please report to the security desk at the far end of the Atrium."

The floor descended below him as Chey affixed the badge to his shirt. A moment of darkness later, and the golden light of the Ministry's Atrium greeted his eyes.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," the bodiless voice said as the phone booth's door opened.

The fireplaces on either side erupted periodically in green flames, announcing the entry or exit of a Ministry employee. The crowd of witches and wizards was thin this early in the morning, with most of the Ministry's employees reporting an hour later than this crowd. Most official Ministry business started at nine in the morning, and it was only seven now. At the end was, as always, the sleepy, badly-shaved guard in peacock-blue robes at the security desk.

"Time to wake up, Eric," Chey called as he knocked on the guard's desk, his customary greeting.

The man fought off sleep with a snort and said, "On your way, then."

Chey proceeded to the golden gates at the end and entered one of the elevators with a dozen other Ministry workers. It was rarely a laborious ride, what with his office being only three floors away from the Atrium, and usually by then enough people in front of him had disembarked he didn't have to worm his way through the crowd, and this morning was no different.

"Level five," came the same voice from the phone booth, "Department of International Magical Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the International Magical Office of Law, the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats, and the Office of Foreign Representatives."

Chey stepped out into the hallway, finding it busier than the Atrium. These offices ran all day and night, since the personnel had to contend with nations in all different time zones. The paper airplanes bearing interdepartmental memos were thick in the air, many of them sailing in packs, as Ministry workers who'd been up all night succumbed to their exhaustion with stifled yawns.

A few of them acknowledged Chey as he made his way to his own office. Well, they called it an office on his first day, but it was really more of a desk in a larger office he'd share with any other American representatives while they were in town, and only served as a place for him to receive mail. Lately, though, because Forsythe wanted _all_ information to pass through Chey, the office was empty, save for one secretary, who didn't come in for another thirty minutes. It suited Chey just fine, as it gave him a short period of solitude before doing business.

Still, the office was not without its charms. The magically-enhanced windows showed a variety of American scenes, from the National Mall and New York Skyline to the Grand Canyon and Mount Rushmore. The Department of Sorcery seal was painted opposite the door, whereupon an eagle with flared wings was set before a wand crossed with a sword. Across from each other were two American Flags at opposite ends of the room. Chey had taken his place at the desk near the window which imitated a view from a skyscraper in Boston.

On his desk was a bit of mail and a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. The mail was nothing substantial. There was a small official announcement of Educational Decree Number Twenty-One, "Granting the Ministry of Magic oversight authority of teacher appointments at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." It was expected (inevitable, even) given Muskrat's information. There was simply nothing to be done about it.

Beneath the announcement was an invitation to a charity dinner benefitting St. Mungo's Hospital. Chey would have to reschedule his appointment with Doctor Tennyson, but the night would be rife with opportunities to rub elbows and bend ears. Forsythe had sent him here to sniff out peoples' loyalties, and an expensive dinner with free-flowing champagne and hors d'oeuvres made people talkative.

At the bottom was a report on how the Ministry conducted official correspondence. Chey had asked for it a few days ago, explaining that the Department of Sorcery was investigating ways to improve its own system and wanted insight on how other governments operated. He sat down into his chair and propped his feet up on the desk as he read it, taking particular note of the owl keeper's daily morning procedure.

When finished, Chey picked up the newspaper, skipping the headlines and going straight for page two. That was where the editorial pieces resided, nearly all of them slamming Dumbledore or Harry Potter, the rest praising the latest Ministry initiatives. There was one buried in the middle about the potential dangers of partial-Veelas, which Chey took to mean they were already making moves to discredit him. He'd have to bring that up with Forsythe, see if that writer's mind couldn't be changed with an inflated wallet.

"Nothing from Skeeter," he wondered aloud.

 _The woman has been silent since that night,_ Deimos echoed.

"She sure got the ball rolling, though."

 _It is curious she has not engaged in the trend since._

As Chey finished reading a piece about noted Parseltongues throughout history, the office's secretary entered, looking as put-together as ever.

"Good morning, Mister McGonagall," she greeted him in her Ukranian accent. Blonde, beautiful, and in her late thirties, she reminded Chey of Fleur's mother a bit, but obviously lacking the Veela allure, and Appoline was easily ten years her senior. She was one of several witches and wizards who immigrated to England to work in the Office of Foreign Representatives. They tended to rotate their assignments as needed, rarely servicing one nation's office for more than a year, but there was never a concern they would relay secrets. Confidential information was never discussed in the Office of Foreign Representatives. No, this space was reserved for gossip.

"Morning, Olena," Chey answered. He'd finished with his reading, and would have been looking for something else to occupy his time while waiting for her.

"Anything you need?"

"Just forward any of my incoming." She took out a quill to make notes. "I'll be on Level Four with Amos Diggory in his office, then at nine I'll be in Law Enforcement with Bones. I'll be back here after that meeting."

"Shall I order lunch for you?"

"Let's play that by ear," he said. "Either way, order for yourself if you like and bill the Department."

She wasn't about to say "no" to a free lunch. "Thank you, Mister McGonagall."

Chey stood and started heading out, stopping to hand her the dinner invitation. "Tell them I'll be there, premium donation from my family's estate."

"Yes, sir."

Chey made his way back to the golden elevators, finding them slightly busier than before. Embarking on an upward elevator, he traveled one floor up, where the disembodied voice said, "Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau."

He stepped out of the elevator, finding more activity than the floor below, as employees dealt with a small handful of unruly creatures. He made his way through the halls, dodging the odd unidentified furball, finally reaching the office of Amos Diggory.

"Amos!" Chey called, walking in. He found Cedric's father deep in paperwork, happy to be distracted.

"Mister McGonagall," he greeted, eyes full of a joy long since lost, extending a hand in friendship. "Good to see you, lad!" Chey was under no illusion, knowing that the sight of him reminded Amos of his departed son, with whom Chey had been a friend.

"Not interrupting anything, am I?" Chey asked, eyeing the mountain of papers on Amos's desk.

"Oh, no, most of this is quadruplicate," he answered. Gesturing to the pile, he continued, "And, no, I've no idea why four departments need to be told the exact same thing. How have you been?"

"As well as can be expected, working in government. You get a look at that proposal I sent you?"

"I had a glance," he said, which was a way of saying he hadn't read past the first page. "Why don't you catch me up on the specifics?"

"The specifics get a bit dull," Chey started, "but basically, we'd fly in a couple of handlers from Nevada to Wales, where they'd confer with MacFusty's people and, in the end, find new, safer ways of caring for dragons."

"I see," Amos said, buying time.

Chey leaned in, "And it might help us find new allies."

"Yes..."Amos answered thoughtfully. "Very good..." As father of the boy whose murder went unnoticed by the press, Amos was always on the side of the people who actually sought justice for his son's death. To be honest, it meant his usefulness was limited in the covert sense, but his powerful position meant he still had influence, even if it meant it had to be used sparingly. Still, he had an in with the McFusty clan, and that couldn't go unutilized.

"So what do you think?" Chey finished.

"I think it'll be a splendid idea," he replied. "An old-fashioned meeting-of-the-minds, eh? Well, I'll be sure to give the proposal further attention and we'll see if we can't get this hippogriff flying. Now, enough shop talk; how is that Vipertooth of yours?"

"Vipey's good," Chey said, a slight pang of anger bubbling forth when he remembered Forsythe had threatened to revoke Chey's Class Echo dragon handler's license and send Vipey to the notoriously cruel Honduras reservation if Chey didn't agree to be Forsythe's eyes, ears and right hand at the Ministry. "Last week I took a day to see him. He's better since I finished school."

"Was something the matter?"

"He was a little thin," Chey said. "Wasn't eating enough. Chuck thinks he missed me."

Amos chuckled at the remark. "Every time we think them nothing more than beasts, they end up seeming more human than any of us."

"Well, there's not much competition around us scoring points for 'humanity.'"

"Too right, I suppose."

A familiar face then knocked on Amos's door. Lucas Elsey, who shared the Gryffindor dormitory with Chey last year, was decked out in the forest-green robes befitting a freshman ministry employee, looking a bit bleary-eyed this early in the morning.

"Morning, Mister Diggory," Lucas first addressed Amos. Then, to Chey, he asked, "Mate, who's the bombshell in your office?"

"You mean the one who's probably fifteen years older than you?" Chey answered.

"Ah," Lucas stopped. "This is where I say something clever about beggars and choosers, right?"

"Maybe later. What'd you need?"

"Delivery from the records office," Lucas said, handing Chey a sealed roll of parchment. "I was told it was urgent, and the bombshell sent me here."

"Thanks," Chey said.

He opened the roll to find it was the minutes of a late night meeting of senior Ministry staff the night before. Chey's eyes skipped right to the decisions reached in the meeting. The words worried Chey until he saw the meeting's start and end times.

"Got 'em," he muttered. Picking up a discarded paper airplane next to the desk, he asked Amos, "Can I borrow this?"

"You mean the third reminder to file paperwork I've had this morning?" Amos replied. "Do me a favor and torch it when you're done."

"Can do," Chey said, pocketing the memo. "Sorry, but I gotta run. But let's go over that proposal tomorrow?"

"Right."

"Lucas, if you run straight to the records office and tell them I need a copy for my records immediately, you'd be a life-saver," Chey said, clapping his friend on the shoulder as he left.

"And Snape said I'd never amount to anything," Lucas drawled.

Chey ventured back out into the cacophony that was the Department of Magical Creatures's hallway. One of the golden-gated elevators was opening as he turned the corner.

"That's auspiciously lucky," he muttered as a man carrying a smoking cardboard box exited the elevator. Only after reaching the gates did Chey recognize him as one of Amos's coworkers. "Whoa, Bob, what've ya got there?"

"Apparently, a fire-breathing chicken," Bob answered.

Chey paused in the elevator's doorway before saying, "That's awesome, but you'll have to show me later. I gotta head down to-" Chey glanced behind him to see Arthur and Harry standing in the lift. "I gotta deal with these guys first."

"No hurry, lad. This should take all day."

"Looking forward to it." The gate closed as Chey pulled out his fake wand and aimed it at where a normal elevator would have buttons for floor selection. "Sorry for the delay, passengers, but we've got a legal crisis afoot."

"What's going on?" the elder Weasley asked Chey as the elevator started a downward travel, continuing past each floor. The passengers began groaning, but Chey was deaf to their complaints.

"Hearing was rescheduled for eight o'clock. And say goodbye to Bones's office; we're relocated to the old courtrooms." To Harry, Chey said, "Congratulations, Specks. You just retained me as your legal council."

"My what?" Harry blurted. Chey could forgive Harry for not understanding. His was a matter that shouldn't have needed council. But the water was rising, and Harry needed a life-preserver whether he knew it or not.

"You don't say anything unless I give you the go-ahead." Harry's bewilderment went nowhere. "And hang on to that expression. It'll help me if you look confused."

"Level Nine, Department of Mysteries," the elevator's disembodied voice said when the elevator stopped.

"This is us," Chey said, stepping out with Arthur and Harry in tow, leaving the elevator's grumbling passengers behind. The walls around them were bare and devoid of the magically-enhanced windows, with only a scant few torches providing light off the old stone of the ancient hallways. "We're looking for Courtroom Ten."

"It's here," Arthur said, leading left off the main hallway and down a flight of stairs. "though I'm not sure it's proper for me to go in..."

"Then you'll wait outside," Chey said. Then, to Harry he cautioned, "Remember, Specks, it's going to be political in there, and politics isn't so much about what you say than it is what you don't say. Play it safe and we'll be out in time for lunch as long as you let me do the talking."

"Shouldn't we just tell the truth?" Harry protested when they'd reached the heavy oak door.

"We will. We just have to be careful about how we tell it."

Harry nodded, but still looked far from relaxed.

"Don't worry, Specks. You've got the easy job here," Chey said. "I'm the one who has to look like I know what I'm doing."


	6. Law

_**Chapter Six**_

 _ **Law**_

* * *

"After you," Chey said to Harry as he opened the door.

Inside were dark stone walls, barely lit by torches. High benches surrounded the solitary shackle-laden chair in the center of the room. The benches to either side were empty, as this was not a public hearing there would be no gallery.

Seated ahead, however, about fifty shadowy characters looked down, all clad in plum-colored robes adorned with the silver W of the Wizengamot. Many of them spoke amongst themselves as Harry and Chey entered, stopping only when Chey swung the door shut.

"Eh, you were to come alone, Mister Potter," Amelia Bones said. Broad and square-jawed, her trademark monocle looked imposing when paired with the purple robes. She sat to the left of Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, who'd put himself front and center. Chey's previous impression of him was that of a portly but jovial man, but the sour frown he now wore only impressed that he may have had a few too many chilies in his curry. Opposite Bones was the woman who must have been Dolores Umbridge. Chey'd never seen her before, but her name on numerous decrees from the Minister would make her his right-hand witch. Though now that Chey could see she was a short-squat witch with a broad face, no neck and a toad-like mouth, Chey wished he'd never seen her or the obnoxious black bow perched atop her head.

"Let the record show that Mister Potter has hired me to represent him in this hearing," Chey answered for Harry.

"Mister McGonagall, this is a bit unusual," Bones said. "Are you sure you're qualified to act as legal representation?"

"Not in the slightest," Chey said. "But underaged-wizards are typically accompanied by a parent or legal guardian. Mister Potter's aunt and uncle are blissfully ignorant of the magical world, so they agreed to have me attend in support of their nephew."

"Now, I don't see that this will be necessary," Fudge protested.

"I respectfully disagree, Minister. Let's not forget that Mister Potter is only fifteen. I'm sure we can all remember when we were fifteen and had to talk ourselves out of trouble."

The remark drew a few chuckles from the rear ranks of the Wizengamot. Chey took it as a sign he was earning a few fans.

"Very well then," Fudge conceded. "If Mister Potter will take his seat," he gestured to the chair with the restraints. Harry approached gingerly and sat down. "Er, I suppose we'll be needing another chair for Mister McGonagall..."

"Prefer to stand, Minister. I think better on my feet." A few more polite laughs. Chey conjured a table and placed his briefcase upon it.

"Fine then. Are you ready?" he called to the end of the front row.

"Yes, sir," Percy answered eagerly. The last of the Weasley children was situated as the scribe for the proceedings, quill and parchment at the ready. He'd been watching Chey before Fudge got his attention.

"Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August," Fudge recited with authority while Percy took notes, "into offenses committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

"Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Court Scribe, Percy Ignatius Weasley-"

"Witness for the defense, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," came the old headmaster's voice. Dumbledore strode calmly across the room as if he hadn't made a scene, when in fact he'd caused a ripple that shuddered through the entire Wizengamot. Reactions varied from annoyance to fright to enthusiastic waving.

 _The man has a flair for the dramatic,_ Deimos taunted.

 _Reminds me of you,_ Chey thought back.

"Ah," Fudge said, breaking free of his paralytic surprise. "Dumbledore. Yes. You... er... got our message that the... the time and... er... place of the hearing had been changed, then?"

"I must have missed it," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done."

 _A curious tale he has spun,_ Deimos said. _Why tell this lie when it was_ _you_ _who alerted him?_

 _He's telling them they can't hide anything from him. But he tells the stupid story to make himself seem like less of a threat._

"Yes, well... I suppose we'll need another chair after all..."

"Not to worry, not to worry," Dumbledore said, conjuring a chintz armchair next to Harry's decidedly uncomfortable one. Every now and then, the chains on it rustled, as if they occasionally forgot this was but a minor proceeding. The Wizengamot continued their muttering while Dumbledore calmly sat down, ignoring the hornet's nest he'd just kicked.

"Yes," Fudge said as he shuffled his notes, finally quieting the disruption behind him. "Well, then. So. The charges, yes." With a deep breath, he recited, "The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on August the second at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offence under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy.

"You are Harry James Potter of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?" Fudge asked, doing his best to intimidate by peering over the top of the parchment.

Harry looked to Chey for the answer. At least Chey's "keep your mouth shut" advice was heeded.

"That is your name, right?" Chey whispered to him. Harry nodded, and Chey inclined his head to Fudge.

"Er, yes," Harry finally said.

"You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?" Fudge continued.

"Yes," Harry said after a nod from Chey.

"And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August?"

"Yes, but-"

"Knowing that you are not permitted to use magic outside school while you are under the age of seventeen?"

"Yes, but-" Harry had stopped looking to Chey before answering.

"Knowing that you were in an area full of Muggles?"

"Yes, but-"

"Fully aware that you were in close proximity to a Muggle at the time?"

" _Yes_ ," Harry said angrily. Chey put a hand to his shoulder, but he continued. "But I only used it because we were-"

"You produced a fully fledged Patronus?" Bones interrupted him.

"Yes, because-"

"A corporeal Patronus?"

"A– what?" Harry finally stopped. Chey realized what Bones was doing: taking the sting out of the offending action by making clear the impressive nature. Harry was trying to bring up the Dementors, but it was more important to let Fudge posture first, then they could defend his actions.

"Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean to say, it was more than vapor or smoke?"

Now Harry looked to Chey for guidance. Chey nodded, so Harry answered, "Yes, it's a stag. Always been a stag."

"Always?" Bones asked. "You have produced a Patronus before now?"

Harry started to speak, but stopped at Chey's hand on his shoulder again.

"I'll assume," Chey said, eyeing Percy, "that the record reflects I have been recognized as Mister Potter's representative today?"

Percy looked from Chey to Fudge and back before jotting down another note on his parchment.

"Mister Potter has conjured a corporeal Patronus on numerous occasions, all within the safe boundaries of Hogwarts," Chey explained for Harry, recalling all he had learned about Harry's education from his teachers, current and former. "During the Dementors' _occupation_ of Hogwarts," Chey was certain to stare Fudge down at that word, "Professor Remus Lupin recognized that Mister Potter's personal history made him particularly vulnerable to the Dementors' effects, so he conducted private lessons with Mister Potter in casting the Patronus charm as a tool for self-defense. The lessons were effective, and Mister Potter has been capable of a corporeal Patronus ever since. This is the first occasion when Mister Potter has had reason to use the charm outside the Hogwarts grounds."

"...And you're fifteen years old?" Bones continued.

Chey nodded to allow Harry to answer. "Yes, Professor Lupin taught me in my third year because-"

"Impressive," she said, wisely interrupting him. "A true Patronus at that age is very impressive indeed."

Some murmurs behind her echoed the sentiment, while a few others expressed quiet disapproval.

"It's not a question of how impressive the magic was," Fudge said combatively. "In fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!"

"Let's explore that, then," Chey said, stopping Harry from expelling another outburst. "We have two charges before us, do we not?"

"Er-," Fudge started, then realized the facts and brightened a little. "Yes. Yes we do."

"The first of which is violating paragraph C of the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, established in 1875," Chey started to pace. "Can't really argue with that, since he already admitted it at the start of this hearing." Chey stopped and eyed Harry a moment. "Thanks for that, by the way." He continued, "But he's also charged with breaching the International Confederation's Statute of Secrecy.

"The agreement was put into place to protect the magical community from persecution, limiting the number of non-magical persons who are aware of our weird world. However, the only persons present at the time were a squib, Arabella Figg, and Dudley Dursley, son to Petunia and Vernon Dursley and cousin to Mister Potter."

"The fact remains that one of them was a Muggle," Fudge said.

"A Muggle already perfectly aware of magic," Chey countered. "A Muggle, I might add, whose parents are so incredibly ashamed of having a wizard for a nephew, they pretend magic doesn't exist, even in front of his face."

"The fact remains," Fudge protested, "that the incident occurred in an area full of Muggles. Any of them could have seen it!"

"And just how many Obliviations were conducted in that area that night?" Chey countered. Fudge was silent while Chey produced a page of parchment from his briefcase. "If the number escapes you, I have the report from Obliviator Headquarters here: 'The event in Little Whinging, Surrey on the night of August second was deemed insubstantial, and no Memory Charms were performed in an official capacity. It is reasonable to assume the incident has gone unseen by Muggle eyes.'"

"You have a point to all of this, Mister McGonagall?" Bones asked unnecessarily.

"My point is: how can there be a breach of the International Statute of Secrecy if no secret has been betrayed?" Chey gave a moment for that to sink in before continuing, "I move that the charge of breaching the Statute of Secrecy be dismissed, as no crime has been committed under the International Confederation's agreement."

Fudge looked ready to burst a blood vessel, so Bones continued the motion.

"Very well. All those in favor of dismissing the charge of breaching the International Statute of Secrecy..."

A little less than half of the Wizengamot raised their hands. Chey prayed that at least a few of them were abstaining...

"All opposed..."

Fudge and Umbridge raised their hands, but they were among the few.

"The motion carries," Bones said. She looked toward Percy when she said, "Let the record reflect the charge of breaching the International Statute of Secrecy has been dismissed."

"N-now, there is still the matter of – of underage magic!" Fudge stammered.

"And we will begin our defense now," Chey said calmly.

Fudge scoffed. "Well, we hardly have time for that-"

"You had plenty of time last night, Minister," Chey interjected.

"Don't interrupt!" Fudge snapped.

"I was only making a point," Chey said, hands raised in apology.

"What point is it, exactly," Bones asked.

"Glad you asked, Madame Bones," Chey said cheerily. "I would like to swear in Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge as a witness for the defense."

"You've got a problem, then," Dumbledore spoke at last. "A member of the Wizengamot cannot be called as a witness in a trial over which he presides."

Chey savored the smug look on Fudge's face that replaced his confusion.

"Well, never mind that the Wizengamot Charter allows my client to submit a defense," Chey said, trying not to smirk, "But suffice it to say, the Minister's testimony will only pertain to the validity of the charges against my client."

"You're challenging his due process?" Bones asked with a raised eyebrow. She then nodded and continued, "It has been allowed before. I don't see why it could not be allowed here."

"I – well – but – " Fudge stammered again.

"Unless anything about these proceedings _is_ improper..." Chey suggested.

"Er... all right."

"Very well," Bones said. Then to Percy, "Proceed."

Percy again looked lost, eyes darting from Bones and Crouch to the papers before him. Finally, after a nod from Bones and her glinting monocle, he sputtered, "Er, the witness's name..."

Fudge looked incredulously at the young man.

"Erm... for the record?" Percy added.

"...Cornelius ...Oswald ...Fudge," he finally blurted. " _Minister_ of Magic."

"I'm sure we can assume everything he says to be the truth," Chey said, trying to move things along. "Minister, do you recall the originally-scheduled time and venue of this hearing?"

"...Nine this morning..."

"...In the Office of Magical Law Enforcement, right?" Chey finished for him.

"...Yes," Fudge said sourly.

"Would you mind telling us when exactly the plan changed to hold the hearing an hour earlier in front of the entire Wizengamot?"

"I-I'm a busy man – I simply couldn't personally keep aware of such trivial matters."

"This says you _can_ ," Chey said, pulling from his pocket the memo that Lucas had given him earlier.

"What is that, Mister McGonagall?" Bones asked.

"Oh, this?" Chey playacted. "This is a part of the public record. The summary minutes of a meeting held last night where it was decided to change the time and location of the Potter hearing.

"According to this, the meeting ended at half-past nine last night. Records show that instructions were sent to the Ministry's owlry to inform the accused of the changes."

"That _is_ what is required by the rights of the accused," Fudge defended himself.

"Indeed it is," Chey said. "It's also standard procedure to expedite notification to Wizengamot members of the change, which you," he gestured to the assembly before him, "obviously did. That may all be above board, Minister, but your office failed to expedite notification of the change to Mister Potter."

"There is no requirement-"

"Are you familiar with Stuart Mauser?" Chey interrupted.

"I– what?"

"In two months, Stuart Mauser will have been working in the Ministry of Magic's owlry for forty-five years. For the last thirty-seven of those years, he's supervised the daily opening procedures of the owlry staff, consisting of himself and two assistants. Every morning, Stuart arrives at seven o'clock sharp. With his assistants, it takes forty-five minutes to finish assessing the condition of each and every owl before they can start on sending the backlog of post from the previous night."

"Are you testifying, Mister McGonagall?" Bones gently reminded him to get to the point.

Chey reached again to his briefcase and produced the report he'd been reading earlier. "Everything I've said can be verified in this investigatory report on the Ministry's official correspondence procedures, given to me by Mister Stuart Mauser, himself. According to the typical timeline described by Mister Mauser, the notification that the time and place of this hearing had changed would not have left the Ministry, en route to his residence, until a quarter to eight this morning: fifteen minutes prior to this hearing."

There was a quiet collective gasp from the assembled Wizengamot, and Chey knew he'd struck home.

"Mister Potter," Chey continued, "would you mind telling us by what manner you arrived at the Ministry of Magic this morning?"

"Erm..." Harry stammered, having not expected to be called upon. Chey could hardly blame him, since he'd commanded the floor for the past several minutes. "The tube, er, the muggle train."

"Did it take you fifteen minutes to get here?"

"...Almost an hour."

"So you had no way of receiving the owl, even if it had reached your residence in time to come in through the Floo network?"

"I suppose not."

"So you would likely have missed this hearing if not for having come in early with Arthur Weasley as your escort."

"Mister McGonagall," Bones spoke up, "are you alleging the Minister's office deliberately intended to hold this hearing without the accused present?"

"At best, it's negligence," Chey answered. "At worst, it's willful deceit. Either way, my client was the victim here."

"Oh, come now," Fudge scoffed. "This was nothing more than a simple administrative oversight."

"You're saying my client was almost tried in absentia because of a clerical error?"

Bones allowed a brief smile to escape her stoic facade. "This is a very clever deduction, young man. However, if you cannot prove intent, then I'm afraid it has no bearing on these procedings."

Chey looked at Percy, who was still writing down everything that was being said.

" _Can_ you prove intent, Mister McGonagall?" Bones continued sternly.

Chey took a few seconds before answering, "No. Intent is not clear at this time." It didn't matter if he could prove it. The accusation was a matter of public record now, and that's all Chey needed right now.

"Then we must move on. Do you have any further defense?"

"We submit Mister Potter's violation of the Reasonable Restriction is permissible under the self-defense clause," Chey responded.

"And here we have it," Fudge scoffed. "I'd thought we might hear some made-up story today."

"'Story' implies fallacy, Minister. We mean to tell the truth," Chey snapped back. Then, to Harry, he said, "Mister Potter, would you mind telling us why you cast the Patronus Charm that night?"

"There were two dementors down that alleyway and they went for me and my cousin. There were two of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley."

"What was your first course of action?" Chey deposed Harry.

"My cousin felt them and ran for it. Well, after he hit me. He thought I'd made it go cold and dark. He didn't understand-"

"I think we've already established your family's willful blind eye to our world. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. What happened next?"

"I couldn't run, so I cast the Patronus."

"Which then countered the dementors' attack, removing yourself and your cousin from danger. Does that about sum it up?"

"Er, yeah."

"Honestly," Umbridge scoffed. "Dementors in Little Whinging?"

"Is that really so impossible?" Chey asked rhetorically.

"A pair of dementors happen to wander into Surrey? I should think not."

"So you're contending that all dementors remain under Ministry control, is that correct?"

"It is."

"Then I'm sure Madam Bones would agree that an investigation into the Ministry's dementor control might be warranted."

"That's a matter for another day," Fudge said, visibly irritated, "but I'm afraid that as you can provide no witnesses to the event, then this matter must-"

"As it happens, Minister," Dumbledore interrupted calmly, "we can."

Dumbledore did not wait for permission, only stood and went to the door so he may lead the frail-looking Arabella Figg into the courtroom and to his own previously-occupied armchair. Once she was settled he conjured another for himself and resumed his pensive seated position.

"Your full name, please?" Bones interrogated the witness.

"Arabella Doreen Figg," she said, her voice quavering.

"And who exactly are you?"

"I'm a resident of Little Whinging, close to where Harry Potter lives."

"We have no record of any witch or wizard living in Little Whinging other than Harry Potter. That situation has always been closely monitored, given... given past events."

"I'm a Squib, so you wouldn't have me registered, would you?"

"A Squib, eh?" Fudge said, considering her. "We'll be checking on that. You'll leave details of your parentage with my assistant, Weasley."

 _The assignments have begun,_ Deimos whispered.

"Incidentally," Fudge continued, glancing left and right among the Wizengamot for an answer, "can Squibs see dementors?"

"Yes we can!" Figg answered indignantly.

"I can submit numerous studies conducted by the United States Department of Sorcery which show that, while Squibs may not be adept at casting magic, they are entirely capable of detecting it," Chey said, placing his hand on his briefcase. "This would include the ability to see Dementors."

Fudge closed his eyes in exasperation at Chey's words. "Very well. What is your story?"

"I had gone out to buy cat food from the corner shop at the end of Wisteria Walk, shortly after nine on the evening of the second of August," she recited, annoyingly just as Dumbledore must have instructed her, "when I heard a disturbance down the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. On approaching the mouth of the alleyway I saw dementors running-"

"Running?" Bones interjected. "Dementors don't run-"

"A turn of phrase, Ma'am," Chey jumped in. "The witness lives her life in non-magical surroundings, it's only reasonable she would apply the non-magical concept of 'running' to an entity moving quickly."

"Yes, 'gliding' is what I meant to say," Arabella Figg said quickly. "Gliding along the alley toward what looked like two boys."

"Could you describe them?" Bones asked.

"Well, one was very large and the other one rather skinny-"

 _You neglected to foresee this confusion?_ Deimos pointed mockingly.

"No, no," Bones clarified, her patience straining, "the dementors... describe them."

"Oh, well, they were big... and wearing cloaks. And then... everything went cold, and this was a very warm summer's night, mark you. And I felt... as though all happiness had gone from the world... and I remembered... dreadful things..."

"What did the dementors do?" Bones asked when the witness's voice fell silent.

"They went for the boys," she spoke again, this time more confident. "One of them had fallen. The other was backing away, trying to repel the dementor. That was Harry. He tried twice and produced silver vapor. On the third attempt, he produced a Patronus, which charged down the first dementor and then, with his encouragement, chased away the second from his cousin. And that... that was what happened."

"What shape did the Patronus take?" Chey asked. He had to solidify her testimony.

"It... it looked like a stag."

Bones stared down in silence while Fudge fidgeted with his papers, trying to look nonchalant. At last, he directed his attention to Mrs. Figg before him and said impatiently, "That's what you saw, is it?"

"That was what happened," she repeated.

"Very well," he said. "You may go."

Arabella Figg's eyes darted from Fudge to Dumbledore and back. Eventually, she hesitantly stood and shuffled back out the door she came. The door shut with a snap of finality.

"Not a very convincing witness," Fudge proclaimed.

"Well, I'd like to remind those of us who were actually listening," Chey said, "that the witness accurately described the dementors' areal effects and her testimony matched that of the defendant's."

"I can't imagine why she would say they were there if they weren't," Bones said.

"But dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and just _happening_ to come across a wizard?" Fudge scoffed. "The odds on that must be very, very long, even Bagman wouldn't have bet-"

"Are we really entertaining the notion that dementors were there by coincidence?" Chey interrupted.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Fudge said icily.

Chey smirked. "I think you already know what it's supposed to mean."

"So you're implying the _supposed_ dementors were wandering around Little Whinging under orders from the ministry," Fudge scoffed. "Is that what you're saying?"

"You would deny this?"

"Of course I deny it!"

"Well, if you have no rebuttal to the witness's testimony, and there's no reason for Mister Potter to cast the Patronus charm in the absence of a dementor, we must then assume the dementors were present at the time and place of the offense. If the Ministry indeed maintains control over the dementor swarm, the question becomes 'who ordered two dementors to patrol Little Whinging.'"

"That is not the purpose of this hearing!" Fudge shouted.

"No," Chey agreed. "The purpose of this hearing is a simple matter of underage magic, which _you_ have have seen fit to turn into a full criminal trial!"

Silence rang through the courtroom. Even Percy's quill ceased scratching over parchment. Chey did not look at the rest of the Wizengamot, only fixed an unblinking stare at Fudge, whose eyes bulged in anger as his upper lip quivered.

Eventually, a few murmurs started up as members shifted in their seats. The murmurs turned into whispered conversations, hissing throughout the courtroom until Bones finally spoke.

"Those in favor of clearing the witness of all charges?"


	7. Clandestinity

_**Chapter Seven**_

 _ **Clandestinity**_

* * *

Chey and Dumbledore wasted no time in leaving the courtroom after Fudge gave up the verdict. Chey's youthful pace matched Dumbledore's long stride, so they reached the door in equal time.

"We had arrangement, Mister McGonagall," Dumbledore said gravely, though he remained polite.

"Had to call an audible," Chey said, ignoring Arthur's plea for an update. "Baker changed the venue, I changed the plan."

"I was hardly able to get a word in."

"Like it or not," Chey said as they brushed past bystanders, with Chey casting a ward to keep others from boarding, and stepped into the elevators, letting the gate close, leaving them alone, "your voice has a calming effect on people. The last thing we need is tranquility."

The elevator shuttered upward. "We hardly need the people in power taking rash action."

Chey snapped his fingers, bringing the elevator to a halt between floors. They both stared forward at the car's closed gate.

"With this one, we do," Chey said. "All his attention is on you and Specks right now, and we've got him on a knife's edge. With any luck, today will be enough to push him into making a mistake."

"Mistakes can be costly, young man."

"And I plan on ensuring the Baker pays that cost." Chey now looked Dumbledore in the eye. "For that to happen, I need him to be angry; and today's verdict went a long way to getting him there."

* * *

London's now-fabled silver Aston Martin prowled onto Charing Cross Road later that night, just as it had done many a night before. Whether there was a free parking space or not, it always found one on this stretch of road.

Chey stepped out of the car, checked his wards, and walked into the tavern named The Green Mug, situated next to a shabby shop.

"Hi, I'd like my usual table, if it's not busy," he said to the hostess, and she recognized his accent and long silver-colored hair.

"Half a moment, sir," she said, then dashed off to berate the bus boy for not having cleared off the appropriate table in time. At half past nine, they were never busy enough to have all their tables occupied, but it did take a bit of effort to ensure the American with the silver hair had his table ready. Sometimes that meant lighting a fire under the busser to make sure the table was clean.

"Sorry about the wait," she said at last. "Right this way."

She led him along the line of booths to the very last one, tucked into the corner next to the door leading to the kitchen.

"The usual, Will?" the bartender called to him.

"That'd be appreciated, Tony," Chey answered, taking his seat and producing a book to read as the host retreated to the front. A moment later, Tony brought a pint of ordinary bitter and a shot of Irish whiskey.

"I've got a lamb vindaloo on special for nine pounds fifty."

"Sounds good to me," Chey answered. Tony left the table, and Chey took a long sniff of the whiskey before sipping a small mouthful. He let it gestate in his mouth, letting the alcohol burn a bit as his tongue absorbed the flavor before swallowing.

As he started on the beer, he felt along the baseboard with his foot until he found the loose section protruding from the wall. He pushed it in with his toe. When that part of the baseboard pushed out again against his foot, he opened the vent in the wall next to his head, kept magically invisible, so he could speak to the man on the other side of the wall as if it were a church confessional.

"Catch any snakes today?" Chey said through the vent, keeping his eyes on his reading material.

"Only if the moon is full," came the response.

"Good seeing you this morning, Muskrat."

"Coyote, this is getting dangerous."

"Are you being followed?" Chey said, downing the rest of his whiskey.

"I don't think so, I just... Look, Baker is going to close ranks if this keeps up."

"And as long as you stay within the ranks, I don't see a problem."

"Dammit, Coyote!"

"Calm down, Muskrat," Chey said. It wouldn't do for his contact to start swearing at thin air. "Start by telling me about Baker."

"He's furious with you," Muskrat said, calmer this time. "Well, he says it's you, but he means the Old Man."

"What's his move to counter?"

"Ministry appointment of the Vacant Post."

"Nothing we weren't expecting. Names?"

"He hasn't shared any. I think he's already decided."

"That's good," Chey said. If Fudge had already decided, then it meant he'd selected someone in his close circle. It was a far smaller selection of potential subjects, meaning Chey could start countermeasures sooner.

"How is this good?" Muskrat asked, frustrated.

"Listen: this is a game of patience. We're not trying to outsmart the enemy; we're waiting for him to make a mistake before we do."

"Sounds like a bloody dangerous game to me."

"'Safe' is a ship that's already sailed."

"This could cost lives," Muskrat said soberly.

"Not as many as there will be if we do nothing. The enemy's biggest asset is widespread ignorance, and the leadership is playing right into that. When Baker and his people fall, we'll need to innoculate ourselves from them. There will be no one we can trust." Chey could sense his contact was losing heart, so he changed the subject. "Any word on who sent the cloaks?"

"No. Skeleton proposed an investigation in a meeting tonight, but Baker and... er..."

"His number two?" Chey guessed.

"Yeah."

"Codeword for her is 'Butcher.'"

"Huh," Muskrat pondered. "Sounds appropriate."

"What did they say about the investigation?"

"Dismissed it. Called it a waste of time."

"Were the minutes taken verbatim?"

"No. After what you did today, everything is going to be archived as summation."

Chey groaned quietly. He should have known that would happen when he'd pulled that trump card that morning. Fudge had been careless, letting the meetings of senior Ministry members be recorded to public archives. As Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic, Percy Weasley was always there to keep notes. And Percy Weasley kept excellent notes.

That was where Lucas, Chey's fellow resident of the seventh-year Gryffindor dormitory, came in. He would receive a tip about a certain record in archives and forge a document request to be sent to the American Liaison from the Goblin Liaison Office, where the Department of Sorcery had their own secret representative to accept responsibility for the requests. The Goblins weren't bothered at all about an American hiding in that office, since the American economy was an incredible investment opportunity. And since Chey was the only one in the Liaison office, all correspondence went to him, so any information Muskrat sent to Chey that couldn't wait for their regular meeting between the Leaky Cauldron and the Green Mug went through this system.

But if Fudge had caught on, this system would no longer be effective for spying on the Minister.

"I can keep two sets of notes..." Muskrat tried to console him.

"No," Chey stopped him. "You are Baker's lap dog when you're with him. You do not deviate from his orders."

"But I can help-"

"You already are. You're my only pair of eyes in there, and you will do nothing to jeopardize it."

Muskrat sighed. "I suppose a message to my family is out of the question?"

"It is. I will not risk them reaching out to you."

At this time, Tony the bartender delivered Chey's lamb vindaloo.

"A glass of water with this?" Tony asked, clearing away the empty shot glass. "It's on the hot side."

"No, just another beer in a minute should wash it down all right," Chey answered, his current glass down to less than a third.

"Good man," Tony nodded and left him to pour the second pint.

Chey stared at his meal a moment, contemplating Muskrat's situation while he ensured the light perception filter was still active. Perhaps a bit of hope couldn't hurt.

"If it helps," he said after taking a bite, "they're coping well with the transition. I spoke with your brother about what I've observed, and he tells me their behavior is unchanged."

"I'm not sure if I'm really relieved by that..." Muskrat muttered.

"You'd best take solace anyway. That's all I can give you." Upon taking a second bite of his food, he wondered if he'd been wise in declining the option of a water glass. "You eaten yet?"

"I'm about finished."

"Wrap it up and get some rest," Chey instructed. "Do not use the archives to contact me unless it's an emergency. Our people will come up with a new system to communicate in plain sight."

"Right," Muskrat acknowledged. "...Be careful out there."

"Same to you."

Tony returned with a glass of water and a fresh pint to replace Chey's soon-depleted one as Chey heard the shutter close on the invisible vent.

"What are you, a mind reader?" Chey asked when he saw the water.

"Only when I'm on the clock," Tony answered.


	8. Countermeasures

_**Chapter Eight**_

 _ **Countermeasures**_

* * *

Grimmauld Place was visited again by the silver Aston a week after Harry's hearing. It was rare for Chey to call for a meeting, so he wasn't sure how many would attend. All that mattered was that Dumbledore or Minerva came, since the news he had to share concerned the school.

"Evening, Chey," Sirius greeted him when he entered the kitchen. He'd been helping Molly prepare dinner. "Staying this time?"

"I guess I should," Chey answered. "Had to skip lunch today."

"Hope it was important."

"Bordering on critical, actually."

"Perhaps it's best to leave it until the meeting," Molly reminded them. "Never know where the children have hidden those bloody ears the twins cooked up."

"Who's coming tonight?"

"Reamus sent word he's coming," Sirius answered, "but Kingsley's working late. Nobody's heard from Mad Eye in a few days."

"I wouldn't worry," Chey said. "He's probably shaking down some leads."

"Anything's possible," Sirius said, echoing what Moody would have said if he were present.

Chey declined to comment, instead helping set the table by hand. If Molly or Sirius thought it strange he didn't use magic to do it, they didn't say anything.

As Chey finished setting silverware, Arthur entered the kitchen with Reamus in tow.

"I see tonight's organizer is already here," Arthur said after being greeted by a kiss from his wife.

"Is the Old Man coming tonight?" Chey asked Reamus. Molly scoffed a bit, as she often did when Chey declined to use Dumbledore's name.

"Not tonight," he answered.

"What about Minerva?"

"Er... she's coming," Reamus said. "Did she not tell you herself?"

Chey suppressed an eye-roll. "She and I never felt the need to share every detail with each other."

"Ah," he said carefully. "Every relationship has its own quirks, I suppose."

Chey wondered for half a moment if Reamus had been speaking to Bill. Or had Deimos suggested the notion?

"Once she's here, we can start."

"Would you mind checking for eavesdroppers in the meantime?" Arthur asked.

Chey opened his senses as much as he dared in this house of despair. Immediately he sensed the house elf on the third floor, too far to worry about. In the pantry, though...

"Got one," he said, and opened the pantry to reveal the business end of one of Fred and George's Extendible Ears, sitting next to the flour. He took out his illusionary wand and shot a focused sound like a banshee's shriek at the ear. When he heard from above the thump of somebody tumbling to the floor in surprise, he knew he had the right one. He severed the ear and tossed it into the trash just in time for Minerva to arrive.

"What was that?" she asked, having only seen something flesh-colored fly into the trash can.

"One of the twins just lost an ear," Chey said. "We're in the clear."

"Let's get started, then," Sirius said, and he left the vegetables to finish chopping themselves. "What do you have for us?"

"My source risked a lot getting this to me," Chey started, pulling a folded page of parchment from his coat pocket and tossing it on the table. Reamus picked it up and started reading. "Fudge had this passed under the radar. Guess he thought we wouldn't notice."

After reading through it, Reamus paraphrased, "'Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two, granting Ministry authority over Hogwarts faculty appointments if the Headmaster is unable to find a suitable candidate in time for the coming school year.'"

"Well, I suppose it's anyone's guess what they mean by 'suitable,'" Sirius quipped sarcastically.

"Perhaps it was inevitable," Minerva said, "after they've torn apart every appointment Professor Dumbledore submitted."

"Could have been avoided," Chey said, "if the Old Man had just poached from another school."

"You know why he didn't."

"Pride," Chey answered Minerva. "He wanted it to be his choice, not someone else's suggestion."

"He _wanted_ the right man for the job," she countered.

"Em," Chey stopped her, "your loyalty is already on your sleeve. It doesn't have to hang on every word."

Minerva tipped her head back imperiously as an uneasy silence fell upon the room. Chey held his gaze as she did the same, breathing very slowly.

"I suppose there's no use complaining about what's occurred," Sirius said at last, breaking the tension slightly, "so why don't we discuss what we'll do now that it's happened."

"Do we know who he'll appoint?" Reamus asked.

Chey snapped out of his staring contest and produced a folder stuffed with parchments from his coat and handed it to Reamus.

"Right hand to the man in charge," Chey began reciting as Reamus flipped through pages, "Dolores Jane Umbridge. Senior Undersecretary since three years after Fudge took his job. Dyed-in-the-wool sycophant to him, so she's gonna be a problem for us."

Reamus frowned dismally at the name.

"I'm not familiar with this one," Sirius said.

"We are," Reamus replied. "She's not been kind to half-breeds."

Arthur continued, "She drafted the anti-werewolf legislation that's made employers... less likely to hire."

"I did think it was weird how she seemed to bristle whenever I was around," Chey said. "Guess partial-Veela falls into that category."

"It wouldn't surprise me," Minerva said. "You, more than most, should be careful around her."

"There's only so much she can do in public," Chey said, as he heard Deimos scoff at his arrogance. "Besides, I've been eviscerated in the press before, but I'm still a _relatively_ respected member of society."

"The people who agree with her," Reamus said soberingly, "aren't yet bold enough to speak publicly. Voldemort knows his best move is to be as quiet as possible for now." His face dropped the serious tone for a moment as he looked at Sirius with a bit of rapturous remembrance. "You put the frog into water _before_ bringing the pot to boil." Sirius returned the smirk.

"How many out there _could_ agree with her?" Chey posited.

"More than you may think," Minerva answered. "You-Know-Who had his share of sympathizers among the common man in the early days. As time went on, sympathizers became supporters, until the extremists became Death Eaters. Conventional wisdom didn't question them until they became violent."

"And we are in those early days again," Arthur said.

Chey thought about those words for a moment while trying to ignore Deimos saying, _Humanity will have never changed; forever shunning that which it cannot comprehend beyond basic intellectual thought._

"Then that's our endgame," he said. "We push Baker and Butcher until they show their own true colors."

Reamus sighed, "I'm afraid that may only bring more to Voldemort's cause."

"They'd be on his side already," Sirius said.

"It's not about who would start supporting him," Minerva realized, "it's about his supporters who openly agree with the new Ministry policies."

"And once they're out in the open," Chey continued, "the Old Man politely reminds the world that Riddle himself would have drafted just the kind of anti-Veela legislation that Butcher's probably cooking up right now."

"...And the seed of doubt is sown," Reamus said with a smirk.

"With maybe a well placed editorial," Chey suggested, "the general wizard public starts to wonder if the Old Man was right all along, and Riddle already has control of the Ministry."

"And the only sane decision is to support Dumbledore," Sirius concluded. "No one wants to be on the wrong side of history."

"Especially when history's repeating itself," Arthur said. "I wonder if you shouldn't host more of these meetings, lad."

"It will mean some of us will have to fly the flag a bit more," Chey said, "myself included. I can put on hold some of the anti-discrimination editorials I bought, maybe instead buy a few slanderous ones."

"You're buying editorials?" Minerva asked incredulously.

"Baker has a state-funded media. The _Prophet_ was always in his pocket, he's only just now decided to use them. Fortunately, not all the private publications are completely moral."

"Why not go to the ones who actually _have_ a shred or morality?" Molly spoke up finally.

"I would if they had a respectable reader base. No one ever succeeds in journalism by being a saint."

Minerva steeled herself against this notion, then said, "I will convey this to Professor Dumbledore."

"Make sure he knows I'm moving ahead with this whether he likes it or not," Chey said. "And I don't think he will, but I'll bet he never had to play dirty to win a court of public opinion before."

Minerva nodded slightly, which was as much agreement as Chey was going to get for now.

Sirius broke the silence. "Well, I suppose it's best if this plan doesn't leave this room, except for Dumbledore." There was a murmur of agreement. "And if no one else has any news, perhaps it's time for that dinner Molly's prepared."

"Splendid!" Arthur agreed.

"I'll relay what we've discussed to Professor Dumbledore," Minerva said, getting to her feet.

"Couldn't you stay, Minerva?" Reamus beckoned. "Your nephew's actually bothered to stick around tonight."

"Surely, Dumbledore can wait another hour," Sirius added.

Minerva calculated a moment, and relented. "I suppose he could."

"Molly, since Chey's chased off the eavesdroppers, they probably need to be told it's time for dinner."

"That's if they've not already snuck through another ear..." Molly sighed.

As Molly headed for the stairs, Chey leaned close to Sirius. "Did you guys try to boil frogs alive when you were kids?"

"Well, they were newts, actually," Sirius answered, "but either way, it was a lesson learned."

Molly returned after a moment, followed soon after by Harry, Hermione, and the younger Weasleys. In that time, Arthur and Sirius had started laying out the dishes for dinner. Chey noticed Harry hesitated when they made eye contact as he entered the kitchen.

"Sorted things yet?" Harry asked him from halfway across the room, bringing Chey back to their last conversation at Hogwarts.

"Some of it," Chey said. He gestured to the seat next to him, and Harry sat down. "I imagine you've got some questions for me."

Harry leaned closer and hushed his voice. "How much can you talk about?"

"As much as I'll tell you," Chey answered. Flicking his false wand discreetly, he wrapped themselves in a curtain of silence, blocking out the rabble around them and stopping the others from listening in. Still, Chey kept his eyes on the others in the room, in case someone wanted something from them. "What do you want to know?"

It took a few seconds for the dots to connect and Harry realized their conversation was now truly private. "...They can't hear us?"

"More for your benefit," Chey confessed. "Some of them think there's safety in ignorance and you know too much already."

"You don't agree?"

"Usually no, but you gotta admit you and the other two have been known to make their case for them."

Harry cast his eyes down in a bit of shame. "Right..."

"But," Chey continued, "if I know you, I know that when you're kept in the dark, you tend to look for the light yourself, and that's what gets you in trouble. Since I don't need you stumbling around on my account, I figure I can at least give you a flashlight."

"Thanks..." Harry muttered.

 _His gratitude is genuine,_ Deimos remarked. Chey tried hard not to flinch at the interruption.

"Where do you want to start?"

"Why'd you come back?"

"Not much choice, really. I sort of got shanghaied into being the go-between for the Order and my own country's government."

"Someone's forced you?"

"The who and how of that aren't important. It's my problem, and you guys don't have to worry about it."

 _Take heed not to conceal too much, lest his trust is lost._

Harry looked ready to protest, but didn't. "So America's on our side?"

"Very quietly. Officially, the Department is taking a hands-off approach with the Ministry's infighting. The rest of the world already thinks we meddle too much in other countries' affairs."

"Did they send anyone else?"

"The Secretary of Sorcery wants me as the only contact between England and the States. But I don't think there's anyone else he could strong-arm into doing this, so there's probably someone on his payroll watching my back out there. Now be polite and let Molly load up your plate."

Indeed, Molly had been reaching for Harry's plate. Chey dropped the spell keeping their conversation private for a moment.

"...must be famished after today's cleaning," she said.

"Er... right. Yeah, thanks, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said graciously.

"I think we just might have that drawing room licked tomorrow. Some of those doxies might be a whole new breed, what with their resilience. Oh, Chey, if you wouldn't mind, could you have a look at some of the cabinets? Sirius would like them cleaned out, but the troublesome things just don't seem willing to open."

"I'll give it a shot," Chey said. "You mind passing the rolls?"

"Of course."

"Sorry my mother's house has been such trouble," Sirius said.

"No trouble we can't handle," Arthur replied. "You've been kind enough to lend the Order the use of this place, the least we can do is spruce it up. Molly says we're making good progress-"

Chey reinstated the privacy spell under the guise of taking a few rolls from the basket. Sirius and Arthur had so kindly taken Molly's attention from Chey and Harry, it seemed only right to take advantage.

"What else is on your mind?" Chey asked Harry. "Bear in mind I don't know how many times they can keep her distracted."

"Why was I kept in the dark all summer?" Harry said quickly.

"We didn't have a secure way to talk to you. Couldn't trust the enemy wouldn't intercept a message from us, which is why we showed up unannounced to fetch you. I know it's shitty, but we have to be careful in our communication. To be honest, I've recently learned it's something that can end up hurting people, but the alternative isn't all that exciting either."

"...Dumbledore didn't even look at me at the hearing."

"The Old Man has his own motives. I can't speak for him." Harry sighed dejectedly. Chey added, "But that doesn't mean he does anything unintentionally. He's always got a motive to his actions; not that he always shares what the motive might be."

Harry looked, understandably, disappointed.

"Hey, it's pissing me off, too," Chey said. "I'm also supposed to be the middleman between him and the States, but he's like a brick wall. I get more about his state of mind from the people who come to these meetings, and they don't seem to know much of anything." _But boy, do they trust him,_ Chey thought to himself.

 _Perhaps unwisely,_ Deimos added.

"Anything else you want to know?" Chey said, hoping the conversation would go somewhere a bit less uncomfortable.

Harry hesitated again. "They really can't hear us?"

"It's like they're not even here."

"...You don't really use a wand, do you?"

The food in Chey's throat fought back for a second. So much for less discomfort.

"Hermione thought so first. Professor McGonagall had you studying wandless magic, and you didn't have one in your hand when you chased Peeves away from your car-"

"My father's car," Chey interrupted.

"And you didn't use a wand when you tied up Crouch's son, and you went after the Minister..."

"I get it," Chey stopped him. "You're a couple of smart kids."

"Hermione couldn't find anything about it. How do you-?"

"Maybe we could save this for a time when we could include your friends in the discussion," Chey said.

"I'll just tell them after."

"I'm saving you from Whiskers chastising you for not asking enough questions. And if I recall, Molly asked me to look at some cabinets upstairs. I should have some time for that tonight, but I wouldn't mind having you three there to help clear them out once they're open."

"But-"

"Trust me," Chey said. "You want Whiskers asking the questions on this one."

* * *

Author's note:

Writing gets harder the more experienced you get. With every chapter, I'm double-checking my own details from chapters long past as well as Rowling's canon. Part of it is I now watch copious hours of CinemaSins videos on YouTube, so I'm teaching myself to close plot holes and enforce continuity in my writing. This means every character's action needs motivation and ensuing consequences, and it's getting to the point I might need to erect a conspiracy theory-style corkboard with bits of yarn connecting characters with events just to keep it all straight.

So that's why it takes me longer to write now. Add to it, I've got my bartending job keeping me busy, as well as freelance AV work. I'm having to force myself not to focus on the other piece I'm writing (The Council Guardsman), which has the benefit of less structure in the original material, so I have more wiggle room and an easier time writing.

But I want to give this story the effort it deserves, especially after having first penned it almost a decade ago (I've lost count of the years, actually), so if updates take longer, please know there is a reason why.

Thank you all for reading,  
Termite


	9. Privy to Confidence

_**Chapter Nine**_

 _ **Privy to Confidence**_

* * *

Having allotted a polite amount of time to finish dinner, Chey excused himself to have a look at the locked cabinets. Molly actually smiled when Chey suggested Harry, Ron and Hermione could help out with some after-hours cleaning once he'd broken through the locks. It seemed Sirius and Arthur had done rather a good job of keeping Molly's mind off the meddling habits of Harry and his friends.

"How much do you already know?" Chey asked, once he'd laid down another curtain of silence and set to examining one of the cabinets' locks, poking them with an illusionary wand.

"Just what we've seen," Hermione said.

"Yeah, Specks mentioned a few things," Chey said, running his hand down the seam between the two cabinet doors. "I thought I was being careful. All right, Whiskers; go ahead and show off."

"Sorry?"

"Tell me what you've noticed."

"Well, I wasn't sure I'd seen anything at first," she started. "It was when Peeves was pouring the paint on your car.

"My father's car," he corrected sharply.

"-Right," she hastily corrected. "I thought I'd seen you cast those spells without a wand, but when I looked again, it was in your hand."

"I would have thought everyone was watching Peeves instead of me."

"Then you fought Derrick and, well, Ron was right. You were fast with your spells."

"So was he."

"But Professor McGonagall disarmed the both of you, so you definitely had something in your hand."

Chey set about checking the door hinges. "I guess you could say I did. What else did you see?"

"Well, I started looking for something about it in the library, but I didn't have much to go on. Then after the Third Task, you woke up and went after the Minister of Magic."

"Which was brilliant, by the way," Harry said.

"What you were saying didn't make a lot of sense, but you flew halfway across the room and I saw a bit of light in your hand when you held him to the wall."

"To be honest," Chey said, "I'm surprised I wasn't arrested for that."

"Must have been too scared," Ron suggested. "He's a bloody coward, after all."

"He did look properly scared after Professor McGonagall took you away from him," Harry added

"At first, I thought this must be another clue, but I'd read accounts of wizards who'd gone mad and used wandless magic and, well, you hadn't said anything or moved for hours. I couldn't guess what you were thinking that night..."

"All things being equal," Chey said, his eyes never meeting their own, "I think I'd rather not talk about what was going on in my head that night."

Hermione looked ready to protest, but instead, "I thought it might be latent magic. When we first met, you talked about the basics of magical theory. It got me thinking that you might have something that gave you a power other than being a wizard-"

"Warlock," he corrected her again.

"Which makes sense, since humans can't recreate Goblin-made metals, and," she paused while she reached for another example, "...Veela...have that charm..."

"Fair points," Chey said, trying to sound casual when she'd mentioned the Veela charm. He busied himself by looking at the lock again. "But it sounds like you're making a case against the Wandless Warlock."

"It didn't seem possible, from what I'd read. But then Harry told us about how you tied up Crouch's son; and how your wand was in one hand, but there was a spell in the other."

"You've never heard of misdirected casting?" Chey suggested. It was a footnote-worthy topic Flitwick had mentioned during one of his Advanced Charms classes, and it might explain what he'd done.

"I thought that might have been it, but it's supposed to be really difficult to do under stress. It's only ever done for entertainment."

"We've already established I'm quick with a spell," Chey said.

"Right, but then I remembered something I saw," she started, but seemed to think better of it. "I saw... well..."

"Go ahead," Chey encouraged. "I can't fault you for what you saw."

"...That party after the Yule Ball." This stopped Chey's investigation of the cabinet.

"There was a party?" Ron interrupted.

"You were there?" Chey asked, trying to remember, but the night's revels affected his memory slightly.

"V-Viktor invited me..." she said. Ron stiffened at the mention of Viktor's name, and Hermione shot a glare at him. "Oh, stop it, Ron!"

"Huh," Chey shrugged. "Well, there were more than a few people there, and I guess we should be grateful you didn't turn us in..."

"What was going on at the party?" Ron insisted, ignoring Hermione's scowl.

"Um, well, we were mostly drinking, and we'd charmed the instruments to take requests..." Chey struggled to recall, "but Connor and Lucas made a butterbeer tower that reached the ceiling, and... I think Ed made it to second base with Victoria."

"'Second base?'" Ron voiced his confusion.

"Uh... Let's say a... more-than-passionate-embrace?" Chey suggested, but Ron didn't register any comprehension. "...Some vigorous use of hands... You know what: I'm gonna let your brothers explain that one to you."

Chey took the chance and returned to examining the cabinet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ron's dumbfounded expression turned to one of frustration when he realized he'd been treated like a little kid who wouldn't understand until he was older.

"Where you there the whole night?" Chey asked Hermione, somewhat grateful to be back on track.

"No," she answered which similar gratitude, but then seemed uneasy again. "But I was there long... long enough to... to see..."

"See what?"

"I saw... you and... Fleur Delacour..."

She stopped, as if waiting for a reaction from him. Indeed Chey did react, but only in that he wasn't studying the cabinet anymore, instead staring into space.

"And?"

"Well... the two of you were on a couch together, and..." She seemed to struggle to put the words together in the right order. "...well, she was trying to take a drink and you were... teasing her..."

"How so?" Chey asked. The memory flooded back to him, with Deimos commenting on each moment, but he wanted to hear the outsider's opinion more than anything.

"...You'd... wave your hand and the glass would just miss her lips, or veer off to the side... She sort of got annoyed, and poured it over your head."

"That was the night I learned teasing a woman _can_ go too far, but you never know how far it will be."

"But her glass only moved when you moved your hand," Hermoine continued. "You hadn't bewitched it as a prank, you were moving it at will. Then later, I guess you thought it would be funny again, but she had a different glass this time and it looked just like before. So it couldn't be a jinx on one glass, because no one else's glass moved, but you looked like you were in absolute control..." Hermione stopped short, as if she feared she'd appear too proud of herself.

"You know," Chey chuckled quietly, "I thought I was being careful. But I guess we all slip up from time to time. But there's one thing I can't get over."

"What's that?" Harry asked, finally speaking.

"All these clues I let go," Chey said, "and I get found out by a single moment of flirtation."

"I can't believe you were at an after-hours party and didn't take us with you!" Ron interjected, his ire directed at Hermione.

"Ron, I was furious with you!" she shot back. "I wasn't about to invite you anywhere!"

"You could have said something once we'd stopped arguing!"

"You would have been cross that I hadn't said something sooner!"

"I'd have been happy with a story or two! Or you could have sent us on over when you'd gotten back!"

"How was I to know what you wanted to hear?"

Chey watched the exchange with amusement, reminding him of how he and Fleur had first traded barbs. It did nothing to help how he felt about his current situation, but it made for an amusing distraction nonetheless.

"You never know," Chey answered for both of them. "You just say or do it and hope for the best."

"So you actually don't use a wand?" Harry said to get the conversation back on track.

"Am I not using one right now?" Chey asked, his attention again upon the cabinet's lock.

"You're using my wand," he said.

"Is that impossible?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "'cause mine's in my pocket."

Chey smirked and dissolved the illusion of Harry's wand from his right hand.

"Aunt Em was right," he said, flexing his hand. "You are a couple of smart kids."

Chey then twirled and flicked his fingers, pushing around the magic keeping the cabinet doors locked. It was old, twisted magic, but like any tangled mass of string, such spells can eventually be undone. In less than a minute, he brushed away the residue and turned the knob on the cabinet's latch, revealing its tarnished silver held within.

"Padfoot's family has some... _interesting_ taste," he said, eyeing the snakehead-adorned flatware and tea set.

"So you _can_ do it!" Hermione exclaimed. Ron and Harry maintained dumbfounded-ness. "You can cast spells without using a wand!"

"Well," Chey said, "I can, and I can't."

"Meaning...?"

"You said it yourself, Whiskers. Some people can use magic without wands in certain situations. My Veela blood gives me a few visual traits and fights back against the Unforgivables. Sometimes people go nuts and their magic follows suit. And last year my aunt had me transfigure three rooms into one using a single wandless spell. So yeah, I don't need a wand to use magic."

"Bloody hell, Hermione," Ron said. "I didn't think you'd actually be right about this one."

"It's not as simple as all that, though," Chey said. "Yeah, I can pull up some Veela blood magic and do small stuff, but I still use a wand for everything else."

"But you just unlocked that cabinet-"

"My wand was shattered when I was thirteen," Chey started, and all three of them became stone silent. "One of my many expulsions. And it should have ended there, but my wand grew attached since choosing me, so it made things literal."

"Attached," Harry asked, "...literally?"

"In every sense of the word," Chey said, holding out his hand, palm up. The shards lit up around his forearm, spilling a little more light into the room.

"Bloody..." Ron started, only for Harry to finish, "...wicked!"

Chey checked the curtain of silence quickly before he added. "Imagine growing an extra limb..."

Hermione seemed the only one of the three listening to his words, so, figuring she'd fill them in, he continued, "And imagine this extra limb added another sense, and now you're inundated with new sensations. That's what it feels like to have a wand bury itself into your body."

"Then you can do spells just by thinking about them?" she asked.

"In a sense, yes. It was kind of hard at first, since I'd spent two years learning how to cast with a wand the traditional way. I spent that summer with my aunt trying to learn new muscle memory. Had to study some magic theory that was way past my grade just to figure out how it interacts with the physical world, then we started with small stuff, just like the first year of school. I'd try to imitate Wingardium Leviosa by applying a force to the bottom of an object, and once I'd gotten it, I had to learn to do it with a fake wand without subconsciously trying to _use_ that wand."

"I'd... never imagined there'd be some period of adjustment," she said. "How long did it take?"

"Em and I worked all that summer before I started school in Colorado," he answered. "With every spell, we'd look up the theory on it, practice the raw casting, and then I'd learn to imitate it. She just barely got me caught up to where I was when my wand was shattered, then I had to go to school, all by myself since she had to teach here. Lucky she had an in with the librarian there, so once I started, every spell we were taught, I'd look up the theory on my own and practice into the early hours of the morning just about every day."

"Blimey," Ron said, "not even Hermione studies that much."

"I had to. Em and I agreed it was best to keep things under wraps for the time being, which meant behaving like a normal student. No one had ever heard of this happening before, and neither of us liked the idea of me becoming someone's research project. If excessive study made it look like I'd be struggling otherwise, we were comfortable with it."

"Why couldn't you get another wand?" Harry suggested.

"Oh," Hermione replied, sounding genuinely curious instead of admonishing, "why couldn't you?"

"We'd had a hard enough time finding a wand that would choose me in the first place," Chey answered. "We weren't looking forward to spend a whole summer looking again. Plus, she figured another wand would compete for control with the one in my arm already. My situation was already complicated, we didn't need to add to it."

"So you're saying," she started, trying to get the words together, "wands can be... territorial?"

"Of course they are. Anything that chooses its caster is going to be. Aunt Em figured as much after she asked some smarter people a few tangential questions. Being thirteen years-old, I wasn't happy to spend my whole summer studying, but back then she still had a way of convincing me what was the right move."

"But Skeeter's article last year mentioned you were a top student in almost every year," Hermione said, demonstrating that memory for detail that seemed to beg for a career as a librarian.

"Long hours and minimal sleep gave me a short temper that year," Chey clarified. "I was in trouble more than I was asleep back then. By the middle of the year, I'd figured out most of the spells, but I was stuck in the late-night studying habit, so sleep wasn't a priority. I started reading ahead, so at the end of the year it looked like I was taking to spells naturally. But I was still temperamental, so I was prone to fights, and I got into a really big one right around final exams."

"And then you had to switch schools again," Harry concluded.

"But by the end of that year, I'd started to figure out I could feel the underlying currents of magic. I could watch a teacher demonstrate a spell, and I could see the magic move through the air, and after I thought about it a minute, I could replicate it perfectly. Suddenly every new spell was like second-nature. Had to be careful, though. Couldn't try anything out until someone had seen me listen to a lecture or read a book."

"Is that how you opened the locks on the cabinet?" Hermione asked, recalling the premise for them being there in the first place.

"Um... think of it like learning a language. I started with the basics, and as I practiced, I learned more and got better. Over time, I learned how to sense traces of magic. You see, all spells leave a kind of residue, and if you know what to look for, you can figure out what it was or who cast it. Matter of fact," he gestured to the house in general, "the dirt you've been cleaning up has got nothing on the spite put into the magic around here. Probably contributing to everyone's mood."

Ron still stood slightly agape. "How's that let you open locks?"

"Ron, will you ever pay attention in class?" Hermione chastised him again. "It's just like making antidotes in potions; if you know how a poison is made, you can use new ingredients to counter the effects." She turned back to Chey, looking fearful she overstepped. "Erm... is that it?"

"Kind of," he shrugged. "It'd probably be more accurate to say that if I can see how something's put together, I can take it apart. Most things are put together pretty simply, so I can read without a lot of effort. These locks were a little tricky compared to other spells I've taken apart, but it's not that different from untangling a knot; give yourself enough time to look it over, and you'll have it untied pretty easily."

"Then what was in your hand when you were fighting Derrick?" Hermione beckoned. Her memory for detail could potentially be infuriating.

"When I was done with Colorado," Chey started, "I had a bit of an ego. I was actually ahead of my class, so I started looking up subjects I really shouldn't be anywhere near as a fourteen year-old kid.. So, I took the exam for Apparition a few years early, then got my Class Echo license just to get a pet dragon. I also looked into illusionry, just to fill my time."

"I-Illusionry?" Hermione stammered. "You mean, like... muggle magic?"

"You could say that," Chey answered. "It's an old art, and it really is more of a parlor trick these days. That is, _if_ you can figure it out.

"Basically, it boils down to using magic to bend light," he continued. "Anything you create has no real substance, since it's just made out of light. So if you want it to interact with the world, you have to learn how to extend the magic to affect the surroundings like a real object would."

Hermione looked to be adding up the equation in her head, while Ron and Harry seemed to struggle with the most basic explanation of the concept.

"That's..." Hermione said, after she'd given it a few seconds to process. "That's a lot of magic for one person to manage."

"Yeah," Chey confirmed. "Now imagine doing it all on the fly. That's where my embedded wand came in. And I'd just about figured out the muscle memory to do it over that summer, which let me get away with a few things while I went to Venice."

"Went a bit far, though, didn't you?" Ron suggested.

Chey eyed Ron for a bit. "The twins keep talking about that, huh?"

"They never shut up, do they?" Ron confirmed with frustration.

"I wouldn't expect them to," Chey said, picking up a bracelet from the cabinet to examine the malice placed upon it. "They wanted to study at my feet when they first met me. And yeah, I got a bit cocky that year. But, when someone gives you the keys to a Ferrari, you don't keep it in the garage until the end of the world."

"A ferr... what?"

"Don't worry about it," Chey consoled Ron's confusion. "It's unlikely you'll ever have one anyway."

"Then all this time you've been using a wand that wasn't really there?" Harry got them back on track.

"Pretty much," Chey confirmed. "Anything I'd need a wand to do, I was doing while bending light to make it look like I had one."

"Well," Harry started, as if unsure how to say it. "...Couldn't you just, you know, have a fake wand? I mean, one without a core, just a bit of wood?"

A big part of Chey wanted to say, "Because I could." Deimos interjected, _Were it not a selfish pursuit of thine own vanity?_

But a smaller part of himself spoke louder. "Actually, I... never thought of that as an option."

"So," Ron bumbled into the conversation, "who else knows?"

"More than I'd like," Chey grumbled. "Aunt Em, the old man from the wand shop, Lenny back home, but he's non-magical... Moody could see through the illusion with that eye of his, and I had to tell Viktor about it some time back..."

"Does Dumbledore know?" Ron asked.

"If Em didn't tell him, I'm pretty sure he's figured it out by now. He knows I can sense raw magic, so it's not that big a leap to assume my wand is a part of me. Ed Bishop definitely figured it out, though we didn't go into any real detail. And I guess Crouch's son knows, but he's dead now, so..."

"What about Fleur Delacour?" Harry asked. It sounded genuinely curious, not accusatory. But Chey's blood froze all the same.

Chey fidgeted with the bracelet in his hand while his mind raced for a response. Should he say no? What if they met up with her? Would they act awkwardly around her, making her curious of them? That would only complicate things.

Evade the question? These were curious kids; it would only drive them to find out for themselves, since they were probably fed up with people hiding things from them so much already.

Then should he tell the truth? Was it any of their business? What did he have to gain from lying? Or from telling the truth, for that matter?

 _You realize_ , Deimos interjected, _your heart pulsates more heavily when the subject of that particular loved one is broached?_

With Deimos's words, Chey could almost hear the voice of Edward or Doctor Tennyson saying pretty much the same thing.

"She knows," Chey said curtly, having resisted the urge to vocally tell the voices in his head to shut up. He broke his gaze on the bracelet and stood up, moving to another locked cabinet, never looking the three of them in the eye.

Harry must have thought this was a good moment to keep pressing, because next he'd asked, "How is she doing?"

"...I'm sure she's fine."

"What, you don't know?" Ron blurted, only to be chastised by Hermione with a swat on the elbow and a stern glare. "Well, why _wouldn't_ he know?"

"It's none of our business," she said through clenched teeth.

"Well, neither is his wand," Ron countered, "but he's told us that much."

"That is true," Chey conceeded. "But all things being equal, I'd rather not talk about that."

"Did something happen?" Hermione said with concern embedded in her tone.

"Yeah, I guess..." Chey tried to come up with a better word, but couldn't, "...something happened."

"So, er," Harry asked, "you're not together anymore?"

Chey racked his mind for a cliché that would pass for an excuse to move on. "I'm... giving her some space..." No, that sounded too much like it was her fault. "She doesn't need to be wrapped up in what I'm dealing with right now," he added. Yeah, that sounded better.

"Oh... all right, then."

"So, are you worried she works at Gringott's with Bill?" Ron stumbled in again, earning another swat and glare.

Chey looked around the room in silence before answering. "I'm more worried Molly might get suspicious we spent all this time up here and got nothing cleaned. One of you go get some rags and I'll work on the rest of these locks."

Hermione signaled to Ron he should fetch the cleaning supplies, then watched Chey closely as he worked loose the next cabinet's lock.


	10. The Fragile Nature of Faith

_**Chapter Ten**_

 _ **The Fragile Nature of Faith**_

* * *

The four of them made some progress in cleaning, but since it was already late in the day it didn't end up being extensive. Still, Molly was pleased and blissfully unaware of Chey's letting slip to Harry some information. She couldn't be too cross about it, since most of what he'd told them was about himself, not the Order, and it should prove a nice distraction for the trio from actual Order business.

"Off with you," she told them while Chey put measures in place that would keep the cabinets from re-locking themselves. "Wash up and get to bed."

"But cleaning doxy dung is so invigorating, Mum," Ron said sarcastically.

" _Bed,_ " she said sternly. Her tone relented when she turned to Chey, "Bless you for helping tonight."

"It's fine," he said.

"It's really all I can do to keep them occupied. They needn't concern themselves with what's going on."

"You can't keep them in the dark forever," Chey said. "They don't always go looking for trouble, but it does tend to find them more often than not."

"They're safe as long as they're here."

"They have to go to school eventually."

"Dumbledore's there."

"What if he had to leave?"

Her expression froze. This was clearly as far as she considered the situation, and no doubt she wasn't the only one. Chey was quickly learning that Dumbledore was the foundation upon which Britain's wizards built their feeling of safety. Chey would have to break them of this dependance on a single point of failure, and Molly was a good a place as any to start.

"...The castle..." she struggled, "it has defenses. ...And Minerva's there."

"Molly," Chey said, looking at her intently, "those kids are no different from the rest of us; we are our own last line of defense."

"But Dumbledore-"

"-Has been the target of propaganda by the government to discredit him. We talked about this: it all plays into the enemy's hand."

"But we've made this plan-"

"-That could potentially fail. Trust my Aunt Em when she says I got my smarts from my mom, but I can't plan for everything. The Old Man leaving the school may be a foregone conclusion. When that happens, they're on their own. Not just those three, but every kid in that castle is at risk."

Her lower lip quivered, then tears welled up in her eyes. Chey supposed her response would be exuberant, so he drew up another curtain to keep her voice isolated within the room they occupied. He was loathe to cast more magic, but it wouldn't do for the portraits to hear her outburst.

"What am I to do, then?" she said calmly, the tears threatening to fall, but never making good on their promise. "If there's really no one to keep them safe, should I tell them they're all going to die? I couldn't stand telling them the truth any more than I could lie to them."

Chey was not prepared for her tepid, measured response. Clearly, Molly had thought this through already. "Then you would live in denial?" he asked.

"Of course not," she said. "But they're only children. They should be worried about simpler things; like schoolwork, or who they fancy, or what they'll wear on Sundays..."

"So you'd keep their minds off the bigger picture, even if they're in the middle of a war-"

"They deserve a chance to be children," she interjected. "It shouldn't matter if there's a war on."

"Molly," Chey sighed, "they'll find a way to be kids no matter what."

She laughed quietly while using her sleeves to dab away the never-falling tears in her eyes, "There's so much of your aunt in you."

"Never been accused of that before."

"Honestly," Molly said, "I asked her how she felt about your role in the Order."

"I figured she wouldn't like it."

"Stop it, Chey. She's proud of you. And she'd tell you herself if she knew you'd believe her."

The concept hit Chey like a curveball. If Minerva had actually said as much, would Chey have believed her? It seemed such a moot point, because they didn't have the kind of relationship that required mutual validation. Faith in one another rode upon not words, but rather an unspoken familial trust.

"She'd rather you'd stay out of it, of course," Molly continued. "You're her family, and she couldn't bear seeing you hurt. But she told me you were headstrong like her brother, so you were always going to do as you like."

"Been doing as I like for a while," Chey said. "After a while, it gets hard to follow orders."

"Then do her this one favor," Molly said, raising a finger in front of Chey's face, "Never forget how to take advice."

* * *

The last glow of twilight pierced through the windows as Chey entered his hotel suite. August was coming to a close as Chey shook loose thoughts of his earlier appointment with Doctor Tennyson, which had been equally as unhelpful as the rest. She'd maintained her insistence on discussing his personal relationships when he only wanted her help getting rid of the voice calling itself Deimos. It frustrated him, though Lenny told him in a letter that therapy often needs time to work, so Chey kept up the sessions under the thinly-veiled guise of hope.

Chey had just finished slipping off his shoes when the phone rang.

"You waited a whole two minutes, Panther," Chey answered it. "I'm impressed at your patience."

"I was in a meeting," Forsythe replied.

"Don't scrap it on my account."

"Water under the bridge, Coyote. What do you have for me?"

"Just one. Old Man wants a favor."

"Depending on what it is, I might get that I.O.U. check I wanted after all."

"He wants me at the school," Chey said.

Forsythe was quiet for a moment. "I thought Baker already filled that position."

"He wants a buffer between him and Butcher."

"Interesting. What's your take on this?"

"My take is irrelevant as long as you hold my dragon captive," Chey reminded him.

"Fair point. Can you maintain your duties to me while working for him?"

"I figure I can hit the London office two days a week and forward everything urgent through diplomatic Floo the rest of the days."

"Be nice to have that secretary do some work for a change."

"So you _are_ watching the lunches I've authorized for her."

"You're still well-within budgetary restrictions, but yes. Fact is we're coming out ahead on this deal, considering the rest of the office is empty."

"Add the fact you aren't even paying me for my work."

"Putting you on payroll implies liability. Start thinking like a spy and it'll make sense."

"So are you game for the Old Man's idea or not?"

"I'll give it a tentative 'yes,' but give us time to workshop scenarios and I'll call you early tomorrow with the answer."

"Got it. Just don't take you time. Old man is in a bind."

"I can sympathize. How's the press front?"

"Counter-Baker strategies are in place. I'm going with the long-play we discussed."

"Good to know something's going to plan. How's you contact?"

"Fragile. I'll adjust my rendezvous to maintain contact."

"Good, Coyote. Keep him grounded, and maybe when this is over you'll tell me who he is."

"Maybe," Chey replied. "What's you counter to Butcher's appointment?"

"Nothing," Forsythe said. "Appointment is a local matter; not our concern. If anything, it takes her away from civil duties, so it's one less chess piece for us to follow."

"Panther, would you like a moment of honesty?" Seth asked.

"I don't think I could stop you, Coyote."

"If you want the Old Man on your side, you might stop dismissing Butcher's appointment as a 'local matter.'"

* * *

"I trust this will be sufficient, Nephew," Minerva said, opening the door to Chey's new office. It had all the trimmings of an disused classroom, with a chalkboard tucked into one corner and chairs with desks shoved together against another wall. The air was stale and a thin layer of dust lay upon the floor.

"Right across from the room I transfigured last year," Chey said. "Nice touch, Em."

"You'll add your own touch, I trust."

"I can think of a few things. Forsythe's people will want to tweak the fireplace, though."

"The Floo, of course. Best, perhaps, I distance myself."

"Probably," Chey said. "You think a pool table would fit in here?"

"Even if it couldn't, you'd find a way to do it."

"Your confidence in me is palpable. Though I'll need to put in measures to keep _her_ from snooping, too."

"You'll cast these charms yourself, then?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I'm here to help if you need it."

 _Did you truly assume she, of all, would fail to notice your reluctance to practice wandcraft?_ Deimos interjected.

"I think I can manage," Chey said, keeping as straight a face as he knew how to. "You think you can manage to remind your boss we're doing this as a favor to him?"

"Albus is well aware," Minerva replied, "as long as Warren remembers Hogwarts is _not_ his jurisdiction."

"Aunt Em, if everything works out, he'll get a healthy reminder of _exactly_ where his jurisdiction ends."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You've made plans?"

"Nothing special," Chey said. "Just something to keep up my sleeve."

Minerva sighed, then looked at Chey in the way she did that could pass for motherly. "Tread lightly around him."

"Always."

"Now then," she dropped the caring tone and returned to normal, "The Minister will want an explanation for your return to Hogwarts."

"Unrestricted access to the library should speak for itself," Chey said, making his way to look out the window. "You've got the world's best collection of magical literature, so it'd make sense a guy like me fresh out of school would want to further his education on his own."

"On top of your diplomatic duties?" she challenged.

"Chalk it up to the stamina of youth, then let the narrative speak for itself. Leaves some latitude for me to pick up more responsibilities down the line."

"You're not stretching yourself too thin, are you?" Chey broke away from the window. This remark from her sounded more like criticism than concern.

"If I need more time, I know who to ask." When her expression was impassable, he turned back to the window and added, "Granger mentioned the Time Turner when she thought I wasn't listening."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, then."

"You think your boss would object to me rebuilding the little garage I had last year for the Charger?"

"I doubt it," she said, exasperated. "Why, exactly?"

"I plan on driving to and from London," he answered. "A reserved parking space would be appreciated."


End file.
